


our voices collide with each howl of the tide

by dragon_rider



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Background Relationships, Body Dysphoria, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Found Family, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, Jaskier | Dandelion-centric, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Multi, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg is So Done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25774249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider/pseuds/dragon_rider
Summary: It reeked of slaughter, both fresh and old, as soon as he went through the portal and into enemy territory.Soldiers in black armour immediately tried to take him down so he started Singing, reaching for the dormant power deep within him.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 96
Kudos: 741





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elder-flower (elder_flower)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elder_flower/gifts).



> Title from King by The Amazing Devil.
> 
> Also a bit (a lot) inspired by Jonathan Young's cover of [Trust in me](https://open.spotify.com/track/6cmEVYPyPb9mcElKTCC61T?si=3s4yuzHPSh2F0T6InMzcWg).
> 
> Many thanks to my amazing friend and beta [elder-flower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elder_flower/pseuds/elder-flower)!

Jaskier had never been sure if there was anyone else like him. He hadn’t felt the need to find out, in a world where everything that made up who he was meant he would be hunted, or worse: sold for parts and tortured first.

Before meeting Geralt, he’d thought all monster hunters were heartless. He’d been so convinced they would see no humanity in the eyes of the beasts they killed, but the Witcher had proven him so wrong his heart had had no choice but to fall for him.

The ring he always wore, or at least made sure to be touching at all times, hid his true nature seamlessly, even from the expert eyes of his travel companion and his wolf medallion. 

Still, it did nothing to bury the bard’s desire to be honest, to share everything he was with his best friend. Perhaps then and only then, he thought hopefully, his foolish heart would understand there was no use in pursuing someone who was already in love with his perfect match.

He tried not to remember his mother’s parting words--the warning in them, what it would mean for the strange creature he was to hand his heart over without thought.

“We mate for life,” she’d said, kissing Jaskier’s forehead with tears in her dark, inhuman eyes, pupils making up all of them, so they glowed even in the low light, “Do not forget that, my son.”

He’d discovered, by trial and error, that sex was alright. The pleasures of the flesh were safe; as long as his feelings for his bed partner weren’t particularly deep, he would be free to carry on.

He’d known all along that if he shared his body, even in human form, with the Witcher, that would not be the case. Jaskier had never felt such devotion to anybody. Sure, he felt infatuation easily but usually moved on just as quickly.

The torch he was carrying within his ribcage for Geralt had been burning, strong and sure and seemingly everlasting, for decades.

He still flirted and pampered his travel companion in every way he was allowed. Any living being was entitled to have dreams, in his opinion, and if his dream was to one day be the Witcher’s beloved that was his business.

Thanks to him, Jaskier had learned true, long-lasting love was a thrill even when it ached. He would not change what he felt, not even for a real human pelt to wear instead of his trusty but frail glamour.

If he used his supernatural abilities, the spell would break, therefore he hadn’t used his Voice or Shriek in almost as long as he’d been in love with the Witcher.

That hadn’t changed after their bitter separation.

Jaskier would adore him until his dying breath, even if that took centuries to come to pass, but he would be careful not to cross paths with him.

Geralt had wanted to be rid of him, had been terribly and absolutely certain all his woes were his loyal barker’s doing.

Jaskier would not refuse him. He’d discovered he would do anything for his love, no matter the pain and loneliness it entailed for him.

So, alone he took to the various roads across the Continent once again. Alone, he spent a few months on the coast, in the very same spot he would’ve liked to show Geralt, had he said yes to his offer.

Alone, he searched for his family, ready to shed his human skin for a bit.

The waves were relentless in their quiet, in their ruthlessness. He swam deep into the ocean but found no trace of his mother or his sisters.

He knew in his heart they were dead and grieved for them, for something he’d abandoned looking for a place to belong only to find that he was still too different no matter where he went, that he was still too cheery or too silly or just too much.

Too much, but at the same time never enough to keep.

***

He was in Oxenfurt when he felt it, a stabbing pain right in the middle of his chest.

He wheezed and curled into himself, forehead wrinkling the parchment on his desk, the heel of his hands digging into his sternum to relieve the horrible pressure there.

His vision went black and when he came back to, he knew what it meant.

_ Geralt. _

His intended was in mortal danger.

This wasn’t the first time he’d felt it, but it had never been so intense.

He had no doubt that if he didn’t act, the Witcher would die. 

He wasn’t Jaskier’s mate and they hadn’t seen each other in years. He knew little of what his love’s life had become, just hoped every day that he was somewhat safe, away from Nilfgaard’s claws that were grasping for him and his Child Surprise.

Apparently, they had found him.

The poet’s skills didn’t include magic, but he knew of a sorcerer he could ask to portal him where he needed to be. It would be costly and his life as a human bard might end.

Still, he took his coin purse and a heavy, dark cloak and walked to the sorcerer’s house.

***

It reeked of slaughter, both fresh and old, as soon as he went through the portal and into enemy territory.

Soldiers in black armour immediately tried to take him down so he started Singing, reaching for the dormant power deep within him.

The ring on his finger exploded, its shards falling to the ground unnoticed as the Siren lowered his hood and enthralled the battalion to stand still.

He would deal with them all later, once he found Geralt.

The scent of blood was cloying and stopped him from tracking his love’s characteristic perfume, that charming mix of man sweat and horse he preferred. His stomach had never liked humans as food, so he made a face as he scoured the camp for the Witcher, his Song piercing and effective to anyone with ears that was around.

He opened the biggest tent, not pausing in his Singing, and grinned with sharp teeth at what he found there: Geralt, the Cintran princess and Yennefer, along with a man whose attire signaled him to be at least the captain of this army, and another witch that seemed to have no trouble facing the violet-eyed sorceress, and had her on her knees.

“Jaskier.” The amber eyes he dreamed of stared at him in shock, dazed because of his Song just like everyone else.

He tried not to think of his appearance at that moment. He’d always been a little vain, he could admit that, but his blue, iridescent scales were not something that would qualify as beautiful for most, only as other, beastly, inhuman.

He pierced the throat of the man, who had been hitting the Witcher, with a lazy movement of his claws, grinning viciously when the Nilfgaardian died choking on his own blood.

The unfamiliar mage screamed and launched herself at him to meet a similar fate; Jaskier’s left hand reached into her chest and tore her still beating heart out, dropping it carelessly to the ground and stomping on it for good measure.

The squelchy sound under his boot was unpleasant, but the result was not.

Jaskier sighed in relief at seeing the Witcher and his found family relatively whole and paused in his Song to look at him, perhaps for the last time.

“Cover your ears,” he instructed. “I’ll focus my Shriek to the best of my abilities, but there are a lot of people out there. I may get sloppy.”

“Your--” Geralt stuttered, a bloody hand stretching to stop him as he struggled to sit up. “Jaskier, wait--”

“It’ll be alright, Geralt.” He smiled at his love, trying to reassure him quickly while moving out of his reach. “You and yours will be safe.”

He turned to share a loaded look with Yennefer. He had always envied her but he hoped her power was enough to take them to safety somehow, even though she was injured and weak.

She nodded gravely, staggering to her feet but squaring her shoulders and standing with her usual poise soon after.

Princess Cirilla stared at him but Yennefer pulled the girl to her side to release her from the gag and bindings they had put on her.

She’d been a delight to entertain on her name days at the Cintran court, back when Jaskier was nothing but a human bard and Queen Calanthe threatened to have his head every time he visited if he whispered a word about the law of surprise.

He’d missed Ciri too, he realized, but had been too busy in his misery to notice.

He left them, tent flapping closed behind his back, and turned his voice into death as soldiers charged at him with silver swords and pikes.

***

He was panting, covered in human guts and blood, by the time he was done.

He retched beside the last body, trembling with the lingering effects of his own power, knees deep in mud and blood, his hands clawing at his sides where he’d been pierced with blades and his skin burned badly because of the silver.

They hadn’t known, of course, that only a golden dagger through his heart could end him.

His other parent had been a banshee, his mother had told him once--only once, because she was ashamed, Jaskier realized, ashamed of what that brief love had brought her; a son that was not a siren and not a banshee, a son that was only a strange monster that even his peers hated, a son that was not supposed to exist.

He hated using his Shriek, hated it more when he lost himself to the bloodlust and forgot his humanity for a moment.

He heard footsteps behind him and sighed. He could recognize Geralt’s gait--injured or not--in his sleep; he could recognize his love blind and deaf and by touch alone if he needed to.

He didn’t know whether that was his Siren side or his other side, but Jaskier was acutely attuned to him and only him.

“Come, Jaskier,” the Witcher said, tone rough but not unkind. “More will come, we need to go.”

He looked up, to the hand his former best friend was offering him, and up further still, to warm eyes that didn’t look horrified or disgusted.

Maybe he’d died and this was his own made-up afterlife, because on anyone else he would’ve called that look… fond.

He shook his head, taking a shuddering breath and shutting his eyes tight.

He was a beast, the kind Geralt slayed for a living. There could be no place for him in the Witcher's little family, no matter how hard he wished it to be.

The Witcher seemed to take the decision into his own hands and picked him up like he weighed nothing, strong arms going behind his knees and shoulders, holding him close to his love’s chest.

“Just leave me here,” he said. _To die_ , he did not add.

Geralt huffed, pressing his nose to the former bard’s temple, unperturbed by the gore covering the creature.

“I will not leave you,” he rasped, “not again.”

Jaskier felt his three-lidded eyes well up with tears and used the last of his strength to weep.

He wondered, delirious, if when he woke up Geralt would do what the Nilfgaardians had not and kill him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, this turned into a little (sorry Jaskier, no pun intended) monster, oops.
> 
> if you're not into ot3 i suggest you leave after this chapter.

It was dark by the time he came back to alertness. Before even opening his eyes, he sensed Geralt was not nearby and a horrible weight settled over his chest.

He didn’t know why it hurt so much, when it was exactly what he was expecting: to be left somewhere slightly safer than a field full of corpses, ripe for necrophages to feast on and for Nifgaardian reinforcements to arrive.

He breathed deeply, counting up in fourths and then down, something he’d taught himself to do when he was young and even his sisters would spit on him and tell him he was better off dead.

He remembered his mother’s face so clearly, telling them to leave him alone. It was like she was there with him, her love, tainted by shame, the only kind Jaskier had ever known.

He’d been surrounded by humans most of his existence, though he’d been acutely aware all along that he was alone in the ways that truly mattered. Trifling affairs or fleeting friendships; he could not share his true nature with any of them. He hadn’t even been able to do so with the Witcher, twenty-two years of longing and following him around like a pest not really encouraging him to open up. If only his never-lover had agreed to accompany him to the coast, then maybe…

He was pulled out of his gloomy thoughts by the crackling of a fire and turned to his side with a wince. His eyes were made to see in the deepest parts of the ocean and the light almost stung as he adjusted to it.

He’d been lying on his back, the distance between him and his intended so terrible an ache he hadn’t registered anything else. He did so then: he was covered in a heavy cloak that smelt of the characteristic combination of sweat and horse that only Geralt could conjure, and his boots and clothes had been removed, his smallclothes and chemise the only thing covering his scales beneath the makeshift blanket.

Princess Cirilla had been the one to light the fire, residual Chaos lingering in the air around her, and she was looking at him, her emerald eyes shy but not unkind. Yennefer had a hand on her shoulder, perhaps to congratulate her or keep her grounded. Gods only knew what the three of them had gone through.

“Are you okay, Jaskier?” the girl asked quietly.

He startled at the question, so sure had he been that he was only there as some sort of recompense for saving them and nothing else. The gills on the sides of his neck struggled uselessly to catch oxygen and the former bard swallowed, trying to control a body he hadn’t used in so long it felt foreign.

The long, deep cuts on his chest and abdomen had stopped bleeding but the silver would probably leave scars. It did not matter, but some part of him would always be vain and self-conscious, and he hugged himself under the Witcher’s borrowed cloak, dropping his gaze at catching Yennefer’s glare on him.

“I’m okay, Ciri,” he rasped at length. “It’s good to see you.”

The once princess of a destroyed kingdom got up and walked to him, kneeling by his side, a slight hand hovering close to him for a moment only to stop and retreat the next.

“I’m terribly sorry for your loss.” He knew there would be no right time to utter those words, so he just said them and looked up at the girl.

He was so terribly sorry for so many things. It felt like a lifetime ago that he had sung to her, ditties to dance to at court and lullabies that Pavetta had requested for her daughter so she’d have a peaceful slumber.

“I’m glad you’re here with us,” Ciri smiled, sitting more comfortably next to him. “Will you stay?”

“Ciri,” Yennefer admonished, but the girl was undeterred and kept her gaze firmly on Jaskier, waiting for his answer.

Jaskier did not have one. Of course, he would have liked nothing more than to stay and help Geralt and Yennefer protect Ciri, but he was unsure of his welcome. He was a beast, a creature and worse--a hybrid. He had no place among humans like them, especially now that he’d lost his glamour.

The sorceress had the same air of grandeur as usual, and he’d rather kill himself than ask for her permission to stay. It was foolish, for sure, to hold his dignity so close to his chest, but he had lost literally everything else. He would not sacrifice this one little thing he’d managed to keep.

Geralt decided to grace them with his presence right at that moment, carrying a dead deer over his shoulder. Jaskier sat with some effort, clenching his jaw so as not to whimper, and felt the weight over him ease some at the sight of his former travel companion.

The Witcher had not left him, not yet.

“Jaskier,” Geralt greeted gruffly, his frown deepening. “You should be resting.”

“I want to help.” He stretched an inhuman hand in the direction of their dinner. He wouldn’t even need knives to skin the meat and judging by the size of it, they’d be saving some for later.

After Geralt had cut the body into pieces with his sword, he rolled his eyes and handed some of it to skin and gut. Jaskier put aside the cloak that had been sheltering him gently to stand on wobbly legs and kneeled a little ways away from their small camp so the blood and viscera wouldn’t stain it.

He watched his sharp claws going through the motions he’d done with blades as a human. He knew he’d need to get used to his body, but he had to blink rapidly to get rid of the stubborn moisture gathering in his eyes. He didn’t like not having human fingers anymore, didn’t like it at all.

His feet had webbing between the toes and were slightly wider than a man’s. He’d always cursed his lack of a Siren’s beautiful tail and fin, but away from the sea his monstrous legs were more practical. He’d never been the best swimmer with them, certainly not the most graceful, but he could make them work in water too.

An idea was slowly forming in his mind. The coast, the closest one--that was where he needed to go, so Geralt and his family wouldn’t need to drag his weight along to wherever they were headed. They were too kind--even Yennefer, apparently--to just toss him aside, to leave him behind.

“Where are we?” he asked to break the silence. He’d never tolerated quiet. And he could not even hum, exhausted as he was. He wasn’t sure he could keep the allure in his Voice in check.

“Kerack, two days from a village,” Geralt answered.

Jaskier repressed a sigh. Of course, Kerack had no shore. How was he going to travel for long enough to reach Cidaris without getting attacked?

He saw Yennefer teaching Ciri some sort of wordless spell out of the corner of his eye. They were near the fire, and the witch was showing her a levitating stone in her palm. He wasn’t surprised the girl had Chaos within her, not after witnessing her mother almost kill everyone at her betrothal party, so he just carried on with his task, thanking the Witcher for the information with a nod.

He had two days then, to say goodbye to the love of his life, for good this time.

It was a small comfort when Geralt handed him cooked venison instead of the raw meat that one would feed a beast.

***

Jaskier doubted the sorceress was asleep, but Geralt waited until she was lying down with Ciri in her arms to approach him, sitting cross legged beside him in a position akin to what he used to meditate.

“How did you find us?” 

It was his usual voice, deep and even, yet Jaskier had to fight the urge to be defensive about the subject.

After all, how could he begin to explain his ability? He didn’t understand it himself. And by now he knew better than to try and talk feelings, even through metaphors, with the Witcher.

His heart was too battered. Seeing him with Yennefer only made the bruises deeper. He could not and would not compete with or compare to her. His only wish was for Geralt to be happy.

“You’re welcome,” he said simply, trying to get comfortable in the same spot he’d been in when he’d woken up, burrowing into the cloak Geralt had yet to claim back.

“Jaskier.” Oh, he knew  _ this _ tone, grating and demanding, and it had never scared him, not even as a humble bard.

He smirked, showing his fangs, and almost enjoyed the way the Witcher stiffened.

“What, are you going to  _ make _ me tell you, Witcher? I know you must be well acquainted with handling such beastlings as myself. You could get it out of me.”

_ I’m weak now. I’ve always been weak for you _ , he didn’t say.  _ Even at my strongest, I could never hurt you. _

Geralt’s hands, which were resting on his knees, tightened to a white-knuckled grip. Jaskier had not meant for his words to be a low blow, he was just aware the monster hunter had every right to do whatever he wanted with the creature in his care.

Jaskier had never been honest with him, how could he blame him?

“I will not hurt you,” Geralt almost growled. It wasn’t very reassuring.

“But you want to?” he taunted, because that was the way he handled dangerous things; by prodding them until they bit him and he was left bleeding and bereft.

“Damn it, Jaskier!” the man hissed. “Why are you being so difficult?”

When they'd last seen each other on that mountain it hadn’t been the first time his once friend had cursed him in exactly that way, but it certainly brought up a whole set of emotions Jaskier didn’t want to revisit.

“Clearly, you forgot what it’s like to be around me.”

Yennefer hushed them and ordered them away as Ciri squirmed in her sleep. “Take your fucking fight somewhere else.”

He expected Geralt to haul him up and drag him to the forest until he got the answers he wanted, but instead he stood up and offered a hand to help him up.

Jaskier's Siren eyes had been made for darkness. He saw clear as crystal the warmth in those amber eyes, the almost plea in them. How could he ever refuse his love anything?

He took the Witcher's hand, careful with his claws, and let go immediately to wrap the cloak around him like armor. He would need it for the conversation that was to follow.

They walked a few feet away from the fire. It didn't pass Jaskier by that the Witcher was still watchful of the camp, taking care of his own while trying to get an explanation out of him.

"I-" Geralt started, so obviously frustrated it was endearing. "I want to understand. To understand you."

"I'm not sure you can," Jaskier replied softly.

He decided he would start at the beginning. Maybe that way, it would hurt a little less.

"I had two mothers. One I never knew. She was a Banshee. I was raised by my other mother. A Siren. As you can see, I don't exactly look the part, so I had to leave."

Geralt’s frown turned confused at the roundabout way Jaskier had chosen to explain.

"The coast," the Witcher uttered, understanding dawning on his features. "You wanted to show me… your home?"

Jaskier nodded, chin dropping to his chest. "I'm aware it was a lousy excuse to postpone telling you even more than I already had. I was scared you'd push me away. But then you did it anyway."

The sea had never felt like home, not really. He was still looking for one, although half-heartedly. He had lost hope of ever belonging anywhere after losing what he had with Geralt.

"Sirens mate for life," he finally confessed, standing straight and looking his love in the eyes because if anything, he wanted Geralt to know he was loved and loved fiercely. "I know you don't feel the same, but I've chosen you. Wherever you are, if you're in danger, I can feel it. And if I can make it, I'll come and save you."  _ Or die beside you. _

For how horrified Geralt looked, he might as well have said the last part aloud too.

"Can we go to sleep now?" Jaskier pulled the fabric around his neck tighter, probably ruining it with his sharp claws, and huddled under it again. "I'll get out of your hair soon, don't worry."

But the Witcher was not done with him yet. 

"You're leaving.” He seemed confused again. “You're going back to your family?"

Jaskier flinched but started back to their camp, clumsy feet dragging through the dirt.

"I don't have a family, Geralt.”  _ You do _ , he wanted to spit. Was it jealousy, plain and simple, that he would never be Geralt’s beloved? Or was he just bitter he could never be even a small part of the Witcher’s family? “Now can we please go to sleep?"

_ Fucking look at me _ , he wanted to scream.  _ Who could possibly be waiting for me? _

He sighed instead, feeling the Witcher stopping him with a hand around his elbow.

He wondered, almost hysterically, if he could shake him off. He was no longer human--he never had been, but had wanted to act like one--and if anything, his strength should give Geralt a little challenge.

Too bad he was so tired. Why would he run? He had nowhere to go. He just  _ had to  _ go.

“We’re going to Kaer Morhen,” Geralt rasped after a long pause. “Ciri will be safe there.”

Jaskier turned around to blink his monster eyes at his intended. He was quite familiar with the limited range of Geralt’s expressions and that particular wrinkle on his brow meant he was embarrassed.

Who could blame him, when he was basically asking one of the beasts he was meant to slay for help to get his family to safety?

He nodded, offering a slight smile. “We will get her there, Geralt. I promise.”

He heard the Witcher sighing behind him as he made it back to his designated place to sleep, far enough away from the fire that it was warm but comfortable. He pulled the hood of the cloak over his head, not wanting to look at anyone again--and most importantly, not wanting anyone to look at him--until morning came.

His mind swirled back into misery. It was either dying while they tried to reach the Wolves’ keep or doing so trying to reach the coast alone. He would much prefer the former, but the Gods were not often kind to his kin, or to anyone really, in times like these.

“Hundreds of years of loneliness await for those of us who are not loved back,” he heard his mother saying to his sisters. “You have to be alluring, entice them to stay by your side or you risk a life of pain.”

He dreamed of an ocean so deep the sun didn’t reach the bottom of it; all darkness and cold and solitude, quiet as a tomb.

He woke up with a gasp and decided he’d rather die on the surface, protecting Geralt and the two most important people in his life, than alone and meaninglessly somewhere else.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the comments and kudos. i haven't replied to the first because i am... a mess, but i will, when i feel like a human being.
> 
> this is where the jaskier/yennefer bits start! so if that's not your cup of tea, you know where the door is (:

Jaskier tried and failed not to show his surprise as he was helped up to ride Roach after a quick breakfast of leftover meat. Neither the horse nor her owner seemed bothered by his presence on her back and Geralt’s arms felt inordinately good around him as the Witcher reached for the reins and led his mare forward.

Yennefer and Ciri rode on a grey mare beside them. The girl smiled at Jaskier every time she caught him staring, even though he still had his hood over his monstrous face, and after a while he felt his shoulders losing some tension.

Perhaps the trip to the Witchers’ keep wouldn’t be so dreadful, after all.

He knew Ciri wanted him to stay. His heart ached with the same wish, though he wasn’t foolish enough to think Geralt and Yennefer wanted the same. They just needed his strength and were willing to put up with him for a while longer because of it.

***

Ciri hid her ashen blonde hair beneath a hat and went hand in hand with Geralt to the village he’d mentioned, leaving Yennefer with Jaskier after a silent communication between the couple that made the former bard feel like he was either a child that needed to be watched or a menace that had to be kept on a short leash.

There was a stream nearby, thankfully, so Jaskier tried to literally drown his sour mood by stripping and swimming a little. The water did wonders for his still healing cuts and though it wasn’t too deep, he could still float with most of his head sticking out and his gills moving lazily along with his webbed feet beneath the surface.

He could feel the sorceress’s eyes on him but he didn’t comment on it.

“I will work on a new glamour for you,” Yennefer said suddenly, breaking the tense atmosphere between them. “One that isn’t so flimsy and can withstand your abilities.”

Jaskier blinked, pausing in his soaking to stare at her. “I--thank you.” He had questions that were better left unasked. What did it matter, if he was getting a way to get somewhere else safely once the little family arrived at their destination?

What did it matter, indeed, if Yennefer was doing it out of gratitude or because she didn’t want Ciri or Geralt to wonder about his safety, or to feel guilty about sending him away?

“I will need an object that’s strong enough to take the spell without falling apart,” she mused, as if to herself. “And I’m hoping the Witchers have some sort of rudimentary library on Chaos at least, so I can do some research. But I can also improvise, if it comes down to it.”

“Okay,” Jaskier felt the urge to dive and be done with whatever conversation they were supposed to be having. “You don’t really have to do that for me, but I appreciate it.”

“Silver harms you, does it not? What else?” the witch kept pressing. He felt his scales growing colder and standing up in discomfort. The patches that were bare after the battle felt as raw as his insides. 

Oh, what Jaskier’s mother would say if she could see him now; so many iridescent scales lost to save a man that didn’t want him. Then again, she’d known no one would ever love her son for who he was. Perhaps she wouldn’t be surprised at all.

“I’m… half Banshee,” he confessed in a curt tone. “So gold as well.”

“That’s interesting.” Yennefer seemed to be taking mental notes and didn’t look appalled at the information. “We’ll need to find a new sort of metal then. What was your old ring made of? Iron? It looked like silver.”

Jaskier sighed, refraining from blowing bubbles into the water in his unease. “I suppose it was part of the enchantment.”

“So you don’t know what it was made of.”

“No.”

She didn’t look mad or disappointed, just intrigued and focused, like solving this particular magical conundrum was a challenge to her.

“It’s just as well we don’t have anything of the sort now,” she tacked on. “I need to save my Chaos in case we need to fight.”

He nodded. He wasn’t expecting her to produce something out of thin air. It would be better if she took her sweet time too, once they made it to Geralt’s keep. That would mean Jaskier got to spend a little longer with his intended, and that was worth more to him than the spell Yennefer wanted to give him.

He was just trying to relax in the stream again when she ordered, brisk and commanding, standing by the edge of the water, “Come out. I want to check your wounds.”

Jaskier replied with a blank stare, hugging his sides to cover them as if the witch could see the missing scales through the dark water. “They’re mostly healed. You don’t need to bother.”

“I know that, you damn fool.” She rolled her eyes and repeated the beckoning gesture she’d made at him. “I want to see if I can make your scales grow back. Geralt mentioned they wouldn’t do that naturally.”

Of course they’d been talking about him behind his back. He was just surprised he hadn’t managed to eavesdrop on them. It was theoretically something he could do, with his beastly senses, but obviously he wasn’t a very good beast.

“Preserve your Chaos. Isn’t that what you’re meant to be doing now, Yennefer?”

This time, he gave in and dived, swimming away from the sorceress until he could no longer hear her muffled complaints.

***

“Are you done with your tantrum?” Yennefer asked him in a bored tone when he came out of the stream.

“Are you done asking questions and ordering me around like you’re the boss of me?” he retorted. He pulled his smallclothes back on quickly, though they were still a little wet after he’d washed them as best he could without soap, and startled when the witch threw some of Geralt’s clothes at him.

“Put those on. Geralt won’t miss them,” she said, surprisingly soft. She didn’t even react to Jaskier’s taunt which was… disturbing, but also a relief. He wasn’t in the mood for their old jibes to go on and on.

The Witcher’s breeches and shirt were a bit loose but comfortable and most importantly, they had Geralt’s smell embedded in them. He felt like, in a cold, distant way, the man he loved was hugging him. It was pitiful, probably, but he let that feeling roll over him and calm him down.

He was sitting in the shadow of a tree, pretending to be asleep, when he heard Yennefer coming near. He sighed and opened his eyes. The sunlight of early afternoon was almost blinding if he wasn’t shielded from it by something, and the poet in him wanted to compose verses about him not being made for the light.

He wasn’t a poet or a troubadour anymore, was he? So what would be the point?

“I wasn’t always--” Yennefer started, huffing as she apparently deemed her own words insufficient and paused. “I’m a quarter-elf. All mages go through a transformation to look the way we want to, once our training is over. You can imagine a hunchbacked, deformed girl would not have been welcomed anywhere.”

Jaskier received the information with a frown. Why was the sorceress confiding in him? Had motherhood really changed her so deeply and so quickly that she felt the need to comfort a monster that was clearly not used to its own skin?

“I gave up something that I didn’t know I wanted at the time,” she kept going, hands smoothing her dress over her folded legs as she sat in front of him. Her black curls looked silky and shiny under the sun, her violet eyes staring holes into him.

“Do you love him?” he blurted out. He didn’t want her comfort, it only made him more aware of his ache. He wanted to know Geralt was truly loved like he deserved, like Jaskier would have loved him if he had half the chance.

Yennefer took the change of subject in stride. “I do,” she replied. “I used to think it was the djinn’s magic and that we couldn’t trust our feelings, but too much has happened. There’s no use in questioning how we came to each other. We need to move forward and keep Ciri safe.”

He nodded, mustering up a smile to give her. “I’m glad you found each other then.” 

He wasn’t even lying or offering platitudes. From the first time Geralt had seen Yennefer, Jaskier had known they belonged together. He had told himself the witch was nothing but bad news and even written a song about it, but he’d always been jealous and greedy. He couldn’t help it. She had what he could not, but as long as she made Geralt happy and took care of him, Jaskier could accept it.

She reached out to put a soft, warm hand over his own cold, rough one and he stiffened. Not even sweet Ciri had touched him in the few days they’d been together.

“He’s been better since you found us,” Yennefer told him, her eyes as warm as her hand. “He was worried about you, but we could barely look after ourselves, let alone try to search for you. I’m glad you’re staying with us, Jaskier.”

He dared not move, fearing she’d realize what she was doing and snap out of whatever trance she was in. Had Jaskier been using his Voice without meaning to? Without even Singing? That was ludicrous. It didn’t work unless he put intent behind it.

So what the fuck was going on?

“Staying?” he parroted stupidly. “I’m just helping you get to the Witchers’ keep.”

Yennefer scowled, her fingers squeezing Jaskier’s hand tighter. “What? Geralt was supposed to ask you to stay with us. What the fuck did he say instead?”

Jaskier licked his lips. “He told me you needed to get Ciri to Kaer Morhen. I offered to help you get there before he asked, you know how proud he is. I didn’t want him to actually say the words. He seemed relieved after that.”

“Men.” The sorceress rolled her eyes. “He told me you were staying for good, so clearly you were having two different conversations.”

“Why would either of you want me to stay?” Jaskier demanded to know. “Because Ciri asked?”

“I told you, Geralt is doing better with you around. So you’re staying, unless you have better plans.” She smirked at him, almost teasing instead of mocking, and Jaskier had to wonder if she could read his mind. “I get it now, why you never truly fought for him. But we don’t mind that you’re not human, Jaskier.”

Slowly, a little shakily, Jaskier turned his hand up and watched Yennefer entwine her fingers with his claws, sure and unafraid. Her touch had the stress he’d been carrying pouring out of him like wine poured from a bottle into a nice, fine goblet. 

Amidst his burning jealousy of her, there had always been awe too; begrudging respect, almost admiration. He still thought of her as a storm, breathtaking and dangerous, but so was Geralt and Jaskier still loved him with everything he had.

He didn’t know what she was offering, except that she was allowing him to stay near his beloved. And he would be a thrice godsdamned fool if he didn’t take that chance.

Gradually, his shaking stopped and he looked up, expecting her to pull away and be done with whatever strange exchange they were having. He was staying, after all, and that was what she’d wanted to accomplish.

He heard footsteps; two sets. One almost silent, the other small but skipping. Geralt and Ciri.

Yennefer used her hold on his hand to help him stand, as if she could sense them too, but didn’t drag him out of the shade of the tree.

“Yen! Jaskier!” Ciri greeted them, holding a medium-sized honey cake in her hands. “Look!”

Geralt stood behind her, cocking his head to the side at their joined hands. He didn’t look perturbed or upset about it, only a little sheepish when Yennefer quirked an eyebrow at the cake.

“It was a gift,” Geralt explained. “I saved the baker’s spouse from a cockatrice a few years ago. They remembered me.”

“Ciri, pack that away. We’ll eat it later,” Jaskier instructed gently. He shared a grave look with Yennefer because of course, someone always recognized the Witcher wherever he went.

“We need to go,” she agreed. “I’ll portal us as far away as I can.”

***

“I fucking hate portals,” Geralt cursed when he was done vomiting.

The rest of their party didn’t have such a tender disposition, it seemed. Ciri giggled at the Witcher’s grumbling, Roach snorted, and Jaskier released the breath he was holding, having never travelled in such a way before. It had been an unpleasant, disorienting sensation but a brief one. He took the liberty of helping Geralt settle back in the saddle and handed him a waterskin so he could wash out his mouth.

“Good thing we can’t use them too often then,” Yennefer said, atop the other mare with Ciri. The sorceress looked pale and tired, but no more than she had before. “Come on, there’s still daylight. We need to cover more ground.”

They continued until twilight, when the Witcher spotted a suitable spot for them to camp. Jaskier felt a little helpless as Ciri gathered kindling for the fire and set it and Yennefer watched. Geralt had gone off to hunt, as usual, and they had water, even salted venison from before. There was nothing he could do to be useful.

When dinner was over, Geralt sat beside him, a scowl on his face that announced he was about to try once again to talk with him.

Jaskier smiled at him, his heart in his throat. He started humming and then crooning, to perhaps help them both avoid whatever conversation they were supposed to have but could not, not easily, because nothing between them had been easy except for the yearning turning into a living creature inside of Jaskier’s chest.

But that wasn’t fair. Following Geralt, year after year, throughout every season except winter, had always been easy too for Jaskier’s foolish, hopeful soul.

_It's like I've gone off to the coast_

_Left you behind just standing there_

_Pretending not to see your ghost_

_If only you could hear my voice_

_But you are screaming far too loud to hear me swear_

_Just because I left doesn't mean that I'm not still there…_

It wasn’t so different, singing in this form, he realized. He’d been a coward all those days waiting to be stronger, to rein in his Voice, when all he needed to do was let his feelings do the controlling for him.

He let the song die a quiet, little death. It wasn’t quite finished. Maybe it would never be. It wasn’t a piece meant for that, but to soothe himself when he was alone. He wasn’t even sure if the words were for his mother or Geralt anymore. The melody had been within him ever since he left his half-kin, disguise fresh and heart eager to discover new ways to get broken.

He knew people thought him a fool for loving the way he did: easily, whole-heartedly, without reservations or expectations. They did not understand it was the only way he knew how to love; he hadn’t been taught, and he thought he had to give it his all if he was to be lucky enough to get even a smidgen of it in return.

He’d never been hungry for flesh of any kind, but he would always be hungry for love and acceptance, that much he knew.

“You didn’t let Yen heal you,” the Witcher grumbled, apropos of nothing, just to let Jaskier know the couple had amazing communication skills, all things considered.

“I’m already healed, Geralt,” Jaskier sighed, tucking his ugly legs against his chest, propping his chin on his knees. “I have scars now. You should know a thing or two about those.”

“You’re not meant to have them,” his companion retorted stubbornly. “I am.”

“How very gallant of you.” His tone was weathered, not mocking. He made sure he had Geralt’s attention before continuing. “I’m sure Yennefer has her own set of scars, visible or not. And so will Ciri. You can’t shelter her from life, I’m afraid, and life will scar her. It already has, even if you can’t see it on her little body.”

If anything, that made the sour Witcher frown even more. “Not you,” he insisted, then silence grasped them again.

“Does she read your mind?” Jaskier asked. It was a non-sequitur, he knew, but his brain was about to go out of commission from wondering if the sorceress’s transformation had indeed left any scars. He hadn’t seen any, that one time he had been blessed by the sight of her glorious, almost naked body. “I frankly can’t imagine you having any other type of heart-to-heart with anyone, even the love of your life.”

He was surprised by the lack of bitterness in his own voice. Knowing Yennefer loved Geralt had changed his view of their tumultuous relationship to his core, it seemed.

Geralt huffed and looked to the side, which was answer enough. Jaskier chuckled. “Good for you. I’ll make it easier for you, for old times’ sake; why do my scales, or lack of them, mean so much to you?”

He went as far as to uncurl and raise the shirt he was wearing to show the Witcher he wasn’t lying and the wounds were just scar tissue, nothing to be done about it.

“See? All healed.” 

“Scales are not skin, Jaskier,” Geralt finally bit out. “They’re armour and I don’t like seeing gaps in yours.”

It made terrible sense, what his once best friend was pointing out. It was definitely why Sirens took such good care of their scales; it wasn’t pride but self-preservation. Jaskier was so different from them, he couldn’t even understand that until then.

_Scales are not skin_. It hurt, though it wasn’t meant to do so, Jaskier knew. Geralt had been deliberately cruel one and one time only.

_If life could give me one blessing…_

But being aware of that in his head was so very different from getting his heart not to feel absolutely smashed by his words.

“I’ll--” He swallowed and blinked through the pain, his grotesque attempt at a hand trying to smooth the fabric down his torso clumsily. “I’ll make sure to let Yennefer try to fix my armour, then.”

“Fuck,” Geralt cursed, eloquent as ever, a hand rubbing his gorgeous face roughly as he got up and left Jaskier to his own demons.

They were so familiar to him, shame and yearning in a strange mix that made up his heart, that he didn’t mind.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to update weekly, not sure for how long I'll be able to keep that up but thank you for reading, leaving kudos and commenting! It means the world to me ;w;

There was no time for the witch to give Jaskier’s wounds a look before they were almost ambushed in the wee hours of the morning.

Geralt threw Quen and held Ciri to his side as Yennefer blasted the men that were closest to them away, but they kept coming in their mismatched pieces of dark armour, armed to the teeth and somehow knowing exactly where they’d been resting despite all their efforts.

“Go!” Jaskier ushered them to the horses. “Cover your ears.”

He didn’t turn around to see if they had any sort of regret about leaving him behind written on their faces. He was too busy Shrieking, and what the heart didn’t see couldn’t hurt it, wasn’t that how the saying went?

His Shriek was made to stun and incapacitate. If he was near enough his target and he was particularly loud, it could kill too, but he wanted to give Geralt, Yennefer and Ciri a chance to be safely away before resorting to that.

In the meantime, his talons did the job just as well, if much bloodier and messier.

***

He woke up to a searing pain in his side and tried to claw his way away from it blindly.

“Stop it, Yen, you’re hurting him!” he heard Geralt’s voice, frantic and so very near that the pain Jaskier had felt diminished to an almost tolerable level.

“You’re supposed to be unconscious,” the witch informed him flatly as he blinked at her. She was disheveled, which was concerning, and there was blood on her dress too but it was dark and inhuman.

Some distant part of him registered it was his own and nausea threatened to make him retch.

“Ciri?” he asked, voice a coarse mess.

“I’m here, Jaskier.” A little hand squeezed his right paw and he sighed, relaxing against what had to be Geralt’s lap. “We’re all okay. We made it. Geralt went back to get you, and Yen discovered they were using my scarf to track us. I ditched it, we’ll be okay now.”

That beautiful, regal blue scarf that had belonged to Calanthe. And Ciri had just… left it behind? The girl was stronger than Jaskier could ever be. He hoped her adoptive parents told her often how proud they were of her and even better yet, that they showed her too.

“Well, you both hold Jaskier’s hands and let me finish, or he won’t be here much longer,” Yennefer berated them.

Jaskier was about to ask  _ what the fuck _ but had no time as the burning returned and he felt like he was being torn apart but from the inside.

He held very, very still, aware he had Ciri’s vulnerable skin in his grasp. Geralt didn’t even need to hold him down, though his hands felt warm on his shoulders. Jaskier just looked up at him and focused on his lovely golden eyes instead on whatever grievous injury the enchantress was trying to heal.

It seemed like a lifetime later when the pain stopped and left a dull but persistent throb in its place. Jaskier felt his eyelids drooping and despaired, battling for strength to stay awake and not finding any.

“Are you leaving?” he rasped, gills gasping for breath they didn’t need. “Please, don’t, not when I’m asleep, I want to say goodbye.”

“No, Jaskier,” Geralt assured him, voice low. He wasn’t moving, so it had to be true. “Sleep. We’ll be here.”

It felt like a dream when calloused fingertips brushed against his cheek.

It must have been, because no one had ever touched him with such kindness, whether he was pretending to be human or not.

***

They had been somewhere in Temeria, that much Jaskier remembered. Yennefer had said she’d been able to get them close to the border with Kaedwen but that was it. The rest of the way to Kaer Morhen was up to them and their horses. Finding the Trail, Geralt explained, was not something that could be aided with magic. So except for the small army that had fallen upon them, they were making good headway. 

They could be there in a couple of weeks--if the Gods decided to grant them a fucking respite, that was.

When he came to, it was dawn. He sat up gingerly, an arm wrapped around his middle, and even more gingerly he stared down and saw a wide round patch of scales just… gone, amidst the diagonal scars devoid of them that he already had.

He felt his eyes welling up with tears and hated himself for being so childish. His scales meant nothing to him if he was whole and his intended was dead. These were proof Jaskier had fought for him and won, and yet he didn’t feel proud of them at all.

_ Scales are not skin. _

“You had a hole,” Ciri supplied helpfully. She was sitting beside him, sewing some sort of fabric. It looked like one of Yennefer’s black and white dresses, but he couldn’t be sure. “Yen fixed it.”

“You’re awake.” Geralt kneeled in front of him, shoving salted meat in his direction until Jaskier took it. “Eat.”

Jaskier nodded and bit into it, not having the energy to explain that he wasn’t hungry. He laid back down with a wince and a thought occurred to him.

“What will your brothers in arms say of me, when they see me?” he asked.  _ Will they shoot me on sight? _ he meant to say, but that sounded too crass for Ciri’s ears.

“You’ll have my cloak, my smell,” Geralt answered with a shrug. “They’ll know you’re with me.”

What a funny turn of phrase, Jaskier thought miserably.  _ If only.  _ His eyes wandered to where Yennefer was sleeping, her head propped on one of their saddlebags, beautiful even in her exhaustion. She had saved his life twice, and yet a part of Jaskier’s heart would always resent her and her place in Geralt’s life.

He could not be blamed for wanting to know what feeling truly loved and wanted felt like, could he?

It was nothing but a far-fetched dream for him, what it had taken her so long to accept as the blessing it was.

“Only gold can hurt me like this,” he said, frowning. “How did they know what to use, or that I would be there at all?”

“They have strong mages with them,” Geralt replied. “Yen says they have obscure ways of finding out most things.”

The Witcher didn’t mention Jaskier’s armour was even weaker now, nor did he promise his enchantress would try and fix it when she recovered.

Jaskier was glad. He couldn’t have stopped himself from crying like a babe otherwise.

He finished his meager meal and went right back to sleep after Geralt had made him drink some water.

***

  
  
  


“We need to stop in town, Geralt. Don’t fight me on this. We need food, clothes and other supplies,” Yennefer reasoned. “I’ll go, I can disguise myself enough and do small jobs. It’s the safest option. I’ll take Ciri with me, so we can get at least one night of sleep in a decent bed.”

“And if something goes wrong?” Geralt practically growled. “I won’t be there to protect you.”

“If something goes wrong, I’ll let you know.”

Jaskier looked away as she leaned in to press a parting kiss to Geralt’s lips. The man looked gutted and Jaskier felt so helpless he wanted to scream; he couldn’t go and earn money for them, he was still too weak to even try and hunt, and he was a lousy hunter on land even in good shape.

What was there for him to do except bear witness to Geralt’s anguish?

“People linked by Destiny will always find each other,” Ciri offered, standing on her tiptoes to kiss her guardian’s cheek. The words seemed to appease Geralt a great deal, and he stood like a puppet with his strings cut as he and Jaskier watched the two walk away.

Jaskier wanted to tease the Witcher about his newfound liking of Destiny but he held his tongue. He imagined that if Fate were to give him a family, he would also change his mind about it.

“It will be alright,” he said instead, reaching to brush a finger over Geralt’s shoulder. “They’re strong, like you. They will be back in no time, you’ll see.”

Geralt surprised him by clutching at his arm. His eyes were wild, his dirty hair standing in one too many directions, but if someone were to ask Jaskier, he’d still say he was staring at the most handsome man on the Continent. His chest felt tight, yearning filling it almost to bursting. 

Some of it must’ve shown, because his companion frowned and stared at him.

“You said you chose me. Why?”

Jaskier would’ve bolted, or tried to, had Geralt not followed up his question by tangling their fingers together and squeezing.

“At first, because I could see you were just as lonely as I was.”

“And after?”

There was something so soft, so open in Geralt’s tone. Jaskier couldn’t have denied him anything, had he asked for it in such a way.

He reached up slowly with his free-paw? Hand? Whatever excuse for one he had, to trace Geralt’s cheekbone reverently.

“After getting to know you, how could I not fall for you? You are so kind it weighs on you. You have so much heart you don’t know what to do with it. I’m so very glad you’ve let people in, that you have Yen and Ciri now. You deserve to be adored, Geralt, and I know they will one day convince you of it.”

“And you,” Geralt added, hesitant, slitted pupils going wide as they searched Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier had seen his real face many times now, reflected in water. He had black, perpetually moist hair, as dark as his big, inhuman eyes. His scales seemed to encase every color of the ocean in them; depending on how the light hit them they would look slightly different, but always pristine and shiny. His blue-grey lips were thin, his features reminiscent of his human glamour. 

He hoped Geralt didn’t hate the sight of it as much as Jaskier did. Sometimes he would forget and tap a sharp nail against his cheek and realize sourly that he was made to withstand his own pointy fingers, his scales sturdy enough not to even get a scratch from them, but Geralt’s skin was not made for his touch.

That was just as well. Jaskier wasn’t supposed to touch him in such a way.

“And me,” he vowed with a slight smile, lowering his arm. “You’ll always have me.”

Words had always been his strength, or they had been when he was a bard. Geralt seemed satisfied with them, and the leftover tension he was carrying left him as he tucked Jaskier against his side and guided them down to sit beneath a sturdy tree.

They had never hugged, not really. It had always been Jaskier running up with a delighted yelp at catching the Witcher in a village after too many months without him and throwing his arms around him, his friend going stiff against him and grunting at him to let go, which Jaskier always did after a moment, unrepentant of his display of affection, craving the Witcher’s arms around him so very badly it hurt more not to get them every time he tried and failed.

This time, as he wrapped an arm around Geralt’s back and enjoyed the weight of Geralt’s around his shoulders, it felt like they were--somehow, finally--holding each other.

***

Geralt didn’t leave to hunt dinner, so they ate very little of what was left of their provisions. Jaskier wouldn’t complain, not even if he were hungry, which wasn’t the case, for they were still close and embracing one another and his need for such things was far greater than any real hunger he could ever feel.

Even before or after bedding someone, he’d never been touched like this; gentle and lingering, and with no ulterior motive. It meant even more coming from Geralt, who wasn’t much into casual shows of affection.

Perhaps Yennefer had been right and the Witcher did want Jaskier around. For whatever reason, he seemed to enjoy his company. He wondered if it was gratitude or nostalgia for their many travels together. 

Eventually Geralt stood up to feed and water Roach and the grey mare that Ciri had named Cloud. Jaskier trailed after him, petting Roach and trying not to wince when the other mare cowered from him.

_ Monster _ . She was right, as if Jaskier could ever forget.

The Witcher waited for his family to come back, wide awake. Jaskier sat beside him, craving his warmth and missing it, staying quiet to help Geralt keep vigil. 

A couple of hours shy of sunlight, they heard footsteps approaching. Geralt was up and had his sword at the ready in less than the blink of a human eye. Jaskier held him back with a gesture, standing up and raising a claw to his lips. 

It would be hard to move to a new spot to wait for Yennefer and Ciri, so he Sang the people away, willing them to find a new path and never come back this way.

Geralt looked dazzled when he was done, and grumpy, a combination that Jaskier’s heart found adorable.

“Witchers are resistant to magic,” he gritted out, shaking his head as if to be rid of Jaskier’s spell that way. “Your Song shouldn’t affect me.”

“It doesn’t,” Jaskier said with a grin. “You’re still here. You didn’t leave as I told them to, did you?”

“But I wanted to,” Geralt pressed, clearly mad about whatever lack of strength he thought being vulnerable to a Siren’s Chaos indicated. “And back at the Nilfgaardian camp, I did what you said.”

Jaskier tilted his head. “I was just commanding you to be still. The easier the order, the harder it is to oppose.”

“Hmm.”

It didn’t take much longer for Yennefer and Ciri to come back. Not long at all, considering Geralt was still brooding about Jaskier’s Voice and the effect it had on him. 

“We should hurry,” the sorceress suggested rather pointedly.

Jaskier stared at the black mare they had brought with them, carrying many more supplies than he’d expected them to be able to afford.

“We stole a horse!” Ciri proclaimed in excitement, clinging to Geralt’s arm. “And lots of food as well, and bedrolls!”

With the air of a tired parent, the Witcher set to distributing the weight on their horses without comment. Roach was still carrying two… sentient beings, so she had the smallest amount of saddlebags. They rode away quickly after that, not wishing to stay where they could be found.

“Her name is Kelpie!” Ciri told them as she mounted her new horse. “She wanted to come with us, so it wasn’t actually stealing.”

Jaskier snorted, engaging Ciri in conversation as her parental figures held a silent one, mostly by glaring at each other.


	5. Chapter 5

Jaskier supposed he was lucky, in a way. Geralt and Yennefer were the opposite of affectionate with each other, even though most of the time they were surrounded only by their daughter and the former bard; people who they evidently trusted with their lives and, for reasons he could not fathom in his case, wished to protect.

Still, he had eyes. Big, inhuman and perfectly functional. He could tell whenever they'd sneak back from some private time that they had made love. They were sweaty, for one, but the worst part--the most telling part--was the softness in their eyes, and the small touches they would share with each other for a while afterwards, as if they were so relaxed they didn't notice what they were doing.

Geralt had never had that look after visiting whorehouses. That was how Jaskier had realized Yennefer was it for him. His one and only. What Jaskier's heart wanted to give the Witcher, Geralt had gone and found it in the sorceress.

The ache in his chest became almost too much to breathe through. He'd taken to not looking at them at all on such occasions. Jealousy and greediness were ugly traits to have, and Jaskier didn't have his good looks on his side to make up for them anymore.

But oh, how he longed for such warmth, such love. He'd seen them together during their first time in Rinde, and they had been so alluring, so clearly meant to be.

Both their faces in the midst of passion were engraved in his memory, which was inappropriate for a number of reasons.

First of all, he and Yennefer were friends now. She was going out of her way to welcome Jaskier into their little family and he was not about to decline such kindness, particularly not since it meant he'd get to spend however long he had left beside his beloved.

Secondly, he was already in love with Geralt. The witch's consideration towards Jaskier had his heart in a constant state of shock because he hated himself, but he also knew himself well enough to tell he'd fall for her too, if he could.

She'd done a little experiment that night, after asking Jaskier for permission, and smiled in triumph as a shiny, brand new scale was born from her abilities to cover a bit of his smallest scar, the one on his chest.

"I'll heal you once we're safe in Geralt's keep," she had promised. "You'll be good as new, Jaskier."

Jaskier had simply nodded, eyes downcast. The lump in his throat felt like a knife trying to murder him. Why was she doing this? And why, Gods have mercy on his soul, was he feeling just like he had after Geralt had offered to die to save him from Filavandrel and his friends?

Had his mother lied? Would that be so shocking? Jaskier had chosen a mate and was to be lonely forevermore for choosing someone meant for another, or perhaps because he had been made to be alone himself, so how come he was starting to feel when Yennefer got farther away from them? It made no sense. 

He decided he would blame his new sense of her on the bond she shared with Geralt. It was powerful, ancient magic so Jaskier could thank that fucking djinn for both taking from him what he never truly had and for giving his best friend--the love of his life--happiness. A purpose. A family.

Still, he longed. He wanted Geralt's arm around him again. He wanted Yennefer's hand in his again, and Geralt's as well. He would kill a thousand men if it meant he got even a sliver of a chance of having that.

He would look at himself in some pond or river, however, and realize how foolish he was. The mage his mother had gotten his ring from had been skilled, no matter how little Yennefer thought of their power. They'd given Jaskier the illusion of being comely and for many years that had sustained his need for company, for closeness, for affection. It had allowed Jaskier to experience being adored and coveted, even if it was always in a fleeting, shallow manner.

He still had his voice, of course, but no will to keep up the pretense he could ever love again, and no one who would ever love him just because he could croon sweetly.

His mother had never told him the story, but Jaskier knew her kin had killed her mate--Jaskier's Banshee mother. Had it been out of sheer envy? Disgust? As a child, he'd heard other Sirens propositioning his mother often. She'd been the most beautiful of them all, or so they whispered. His mother always declined such offers of unattached pleasure, with grace but also with an edge of something else he could only name now that he was so familiar with it: sadness.

"Would you like some?" Ciri asked him gently.

Jaskier startled. What a lousy excuse for a guardian he made. Geralt and Yennefer had gone off to spend time together. It was night, but they hadn't seen anyone for miles and they were close to the Trail, according to the Witcher.

The girl was offering him some blueberries Jaskier had found that morning and picked for her. Like any noble, she was used to having dessert. She'd enjoyed the honey cake Geralt had been given more than anyone else, but that was long gone by now.

He shook his head and tried to give Ciri a smile, hugging his knees tighter to his chest. "No, thank you, darling. They're for you."

"You don't like sweet things?" she asked with a frown. Jaskier hadn't accepted a slice of honey cake either.

He did. He just didn't want to take them from her. 

He obviously couldn't say that, so he shook his head again.

"Are they tasty?" he asked in return.

"Yes, you should have some," she insisted, standing up from where she was near the fire to kneel in front of him and hold one to his mouth. "Try one, please? It'll make you happy! Sweet food always makes me happy."

Jaskier accepted the fruit, careful of his fangs, and chewed, feeling guilty and ashamed that she'd noticed his mood and was trying to cheer him up. She was such a treasure, he was so happy she had Geralt and Yennefer to take care of her.

The sorceress was a natural with Ciri, doting but stern when she had to be. And Geralt, though it had surprised Jaskier none, was so loving and good to her. It seemed like they'd had her for their whole lives instead of just a few months.

"It was very nice, thank you." 

That only encouraged Ciri to shove more berries his way. He ate them, uncurling a bit, conscious of her green eyes still fixed on him.

"You always sit away from the fire," Ciri pointed out. "Is it because of your eyes?"

"And the warmth," he admitted. In the depth of the sea, it was always cold. He was built for low temperatures and darkness, it was just a fact he'd have to come to terms with.

"Oh." Ciri's hand darted out to touch the back of his hand. "But you're cold. Wouldn't you like to be warm?"

"Ciri," Yennefer's voice interrupted. "Come, it's late."

They had two bedrolls, one for the girl, though Yennefer slept with her in case she had a nightmare (which she did every night), and a spare one that Geralt insisted was for Yennefer or Jaskier but that wasn't used by either.

"It's cold, Jaskier," the Witcher said, gesturing for him to lie down on the bedroll for the tenth night in a row.

Jaskier had not looked at either of them closely when they'd returned but even so, his enhanced sense of smell told him more than he needed or wanted to know.

"Oh for the love of all the Gods, I don't get cold! It's freezing deep in the ocean! Would you try and sleep slightly more comfortably for once, Geralt? I'm more than capable of keeping watch."

His friend seemed taken aback by his vehemence, for he just stared and nodded, doing as he was told for a change.

Jaskier's ears picked up Yennefer sighing and he winced, waiting for a lecture that didn't come.

He stayed awake with no trouble. He had plenty of things to torment himself with.

Geralt never fell asleep, but at least he lay down for a few hours, close enough to Ciri and Yennefer that he could look at them and rest his body, if not his mind.

Jaskier stayed curled up at the other side of their small camp, watching and aching. Had he been truly alone, he'd have sung to himself, but he was not.

It was hard not to feel like he was intruding, or like he was nothing but a guard dog.

Still, he kept watch as he'd promised, trying to be good to them.

If he wasn't, if he stopped being good or useful, he feared his welcome would run out.

***

There were no more touches, only long rides throughout every bit of daylight they could get, which wasn’t much, considering it was almost winter, and sometimes through the night too, if any of them felt they were too close to some small village or a group of travellers.

Finally, Geralt announced they were close. It was vague, but years and years of experience interpreting his friend’s stilted speech told Jaskier that this meant they would not be sleeping out in the wilderness any longer.

It was a relief, knowing Geralt and his family were so close to their safe haven. Whether Kaer Morhen would be that for him or not, that remained to be seen.

It was early afternoon, a little after Jaskier had got tired of the saddle and started waddling on his monstrous feet, when a quiet whiz in the air alerted him that something was coming his way.

Geralt caught the arrow inches from Jaskier’s face and growled, moving to stand in front of him. 

“He’s with me! Eskel, Lambert, don’t shoot! Come out!”

Jaskier’s hood had fallen from his head with the rapid movement the Witcher had made and he squinted in the sunlight, warmed by his friend’s protectiveness but also scared of what was about to happen. Behind them, Yennefer and Ciri jumped off their horses and got ready for an ambush.

Would Geralt’s brothers welcome him or try to kill him? He guessed he had his answer now.

“Sorry, neither,” a husky male voice replied lightly as a tall blond man revealed himself to them.

He had a Witcher’s medallion over his armour, Jaskier noted, but it didn’t show a wolf’s head but a cat’s. He was carrying a crossbow and had green, slitted eyes, almost as big as Jaskier's own, that stared at him as a predator would his prey.

“Who the fuck are you?” Geralt demanded to know, unsheathing his sword with a swift hand.

“Aiden, School of the Cat.” The stranger grinned cockily, sparing only a glance at the sword Geralt had pointed at him. He had two horizontal scars across his nose, lighter than the rest of his slightly tanned skin. “You must be the White Wolf. I see Lambert isn’t the only one who brought guests for the winter, but really? What  _ is _ that?” 

Jaskier flinched and looked away, clumsy hands hurrying to put the hood of Geralt’s borrowed cloak back up. 

“Sorta looks like a Siren, so I thought I’d check if you were under its influence. Jury’s still out on that.”

Jaskier jumped and opened his eyes as he heard Geralt roaring and launching an attack on the other Witcher, who just laughed and deflected the blade with his crossbow. The Cat Witcher’s levity didn’t last long, however, not when Geralt disarmed him and held his sword against his neck.

“If you ever talk to him like that or try to hurt him again, I will fucking kill you,” Geralt threatened. “I’ll ask again, who the fuck are you? Why are you here? If you don’t give me a good answer, I will fucking kill you.”

“I see you don’t know many words, wolf." Aiden bared his teeth in challenge, his canines pointier than a regular human’s would be. “I’m wintering with Lambert, it’s my turn to hunt today. What about you? Why are you bringing a mons--” Geralt pressed the sword to his skin hard enough to draw blood and the Cat Witcher stopped talking, hissing at him.

“Geralt, that’s enough,” Yennefer said and strolled over to lower Geralt’s arm from the other Witcher’s throat. “Aiden, was it? Are all Cat Witchers as idiotic as you? Check your fucking medallion, is it warning you of danger?” She sneered at the stranger as Aiden huffed and rubbed his neck. “No, I didn’t think so. Do not test us. Jaskier doesn’t have us under any spell, but I can think of about a dozen I’d like to try on you, to see how you like them.”

“Of course you brought a fucking sorceress too.” Aiden raised his hands in surrender, rolling his eyes at Yennefer. “Aren’t you lot sensitive? I was just trying to look out for you.”

Jaskier’s heart was trying to beat out of his chest. This was the welcome he had been dreading, but having Geralt and Yennefer defending him so readily, without question, that was… it wasn’t often he couldn’t find a word to describe how he felt, but none were coming to him.

“You’re a mean bastard,” Ciri spoke up, frowning at the newcomer. “I don’t like you.”

Aiden guffawed. “That’s a good description of me, little girl. Ask Lambert later, he’ll agree with you. What’s your name?”

Ciri smiled sweetly and approached the other Witcher as if to introduce herself. Geralt grunted and tried to stop her, but Yennefer allowed it, violet eyes following the girl until Ciri, almost as fast as a Witcher, kneed Aiden in the groin.

“Oomph.” The Cat Witcher stood very still, doubled over a little in pain, and stared at the girl in wonder. “That was a good kick, little lady. My respects.”

“I’m Ciri, and I will kick you again if you’re mean to Jaskier.” Ciri looked down at him as only royalty could do. “So watch your tongue, cat.”

Jaskier blinked, watching as Aiden nodded good-naturedly and picked up his weapon to hang it on his back, which he did under Geralt’s glare. Yennefer gripped Ciri’s shoulders, leaning down to whisper praise in her ear, which had the girl beaming and Jaskier relaxing the slightest bit.

Geralt was still gripping his sword tightly in one hand, and he led Roach with the other, poking Aiden to make sure he remained in front of him whenever he tried to wander. Jaskier trailed behind quietly, chin tilted down to avoid the light and the eyes around him.

It had been… nice, knowing Geralt, Yennefer and Ciri were so clearly on his side, but he was concerned he wouldn’t be allowed to stay in the Witchers’ keep. The way up the mountains had been steep and harsh, and he didn’t wish to go down alone--not ever, and especially not so soon.

He was not ready to let Geralt go, he realized. They were friends again, and Jaskier would cling to that with every fang and claw he possessed, until his very last breath.

***

The outer doors of the wrecked keep opened to greet them and a man that, if Jaskier squinted, looked vaguely like Geralt but with short black hair, ran to envelop his friend in a hug that Geralt reciprocated so naturally Jaskier knew this had to be one of his brothers from the School of the Wolf.

He had a big, disfiguring scar on the right side of his otherwise handsome face. Jaskier did not stare and made a mental note never to ask about it.

“It’s good to see you, Geralt." The other Witcher smiled and looked at Geralt’s entourage, raising an eyebrow at the man he still had his arm around. “I see you claimed your Child Surprise. Hello, I’m Eskel.”

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” the sorceress replied. “This is Ciri, and Jaskier.”

“Jaskier, the Master Bard that sings about Geralt?” Eskel asked, his amber eyes zeroing in on Jaskier.

“Yes, he is!” Ciri answered for him, which was just as well. There was no way Jaskier could find a way to explain he wasn’t a bard anymore that wouldn’t upset the girl.

“Well, pleased to meet you all.” Eskel finally let Geralt go, patting him on the back. “You brought everyone, huh? This is going to be an interesting winter.” He turned to Aiden and sighed. “What did you do, cat? You were supposed to be out hunting.”

“I was!” Aiden retorted indignantly, “and then your crazy brother tried to kill me!”

“You started it,” Geralt rasped, giving him the side eye.

“Well, go back and do your job,” Eskel shooed the Cat Witcher and to Jaskier’s surprise, Aiden rolled his eyes but went meekly back to the forest. “He’s Lambert’s partner. Don’t ask or rather, don’t ask  _ me _ .”

“Is he now?” Yennefer said consideringly, her eyes glinting. “What kind of partner?”

Eskel groaned and didn’t reply, just guided them inside after insisting Ciri mounted her mare. Noticing the rats scurrying around their feet, Jaskier understood why. The rest of their party just kicked at the rodents and walked to the stables, where another Witcher was feeding the horses.

He looked slightly younger than Geralt and Eskel but maybe that was just the red hair and beard. He also had a scar on his face, but nothing so jarring as the one Eskel had.

He started laughing as soon as he spotted them and jogged to Geralt to give him rough pats on the back as a greeting.

“Oh, this is hilarious!” he wheezed between peals of laughter that were contagious enough to have Eskel joining him and Jaskier smiling in spite of himself. “Mister I-need-no-one brought his whole fucking family to meet us!”

“Lambert,” Geralt growled in warning, but his brothers seemed immune to it the same way Jaskier had never once been scared of his empty threats.

Lambert snorted. “Down, pretty boy, I’m not out for blood.” He searched amongst them and frowned. “Where the fuck is Aiden? Did you see him? A blond idiot, yea high, big green kitty eyes, couldn’t shut up if his life depended on it.”

“Keep your cat away from us,” was all Geralt replied, going into the stables with Roach after helping Ciri off Kelpie, only to be followed by the other two Wtichers.

It was liberating, having both of Geralt’s brothers accept him without staring or asking any questions. They seemed more interested in pestering Geralt than in finding out what he was, which Jaskier could see was amusing not only to him but also to Yennefer and Ciri, who giggled as they spied and eavesdropped on the exchange.

“Finally manned up, did you?” Lambert teased. “You got your witch, your Child Surprise and…”

“His bard,” Eskel supplied.

“You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

Jaskier was trapped between wanting to go inside to help with their bags or staying put, wanting to listen but fearing what they might say.

“Come on.” Yennefer hooked her arm in his and made the decision for him. “Let’s leave them to it.”

Ciri took the sorceress’s free hand and the three of them wandered inside, the inner gates heavy but nothing a gust of magically reinforced wind couldn’t open. There was an older Witcher waiting for them in the entrance hall, leaning against the wall beside a lit torch. Jaskier could see his grey hair had nothing to do with mutations but with age, though he had to wonder exactly how many years a Witcher needed to look like an ordinary man would look at sixty.

“Hello, I’m Ciri,” Ciri greeted him, curious, but without letting go of Yennefer’s hand. “Are you Geralt’s teacher?”

“Hello, child. Yes, my name is Vesemir.” The old man took a moment to look at her, before directing his attention to Jaskier and Yennefer. “You two are lucky our defenses aren’t what they used to be.”

Jaskier had forgotten that Witchers and mages didn’t exactly get along. It was a little too much, if one were to ask him, to put a beast in the same bag as a witch, and he scowled on Yennefer’s behalf.

“I guess we are,” Yennefer agreed, oddly patient but with a sharp edge in her voice. “You are certainly lucky I don’t feel like showing off right now.”

“I think you did enough of that back in Sodden, Yennefer of Vengerberg,” Vesemir noted. “We know of your power. If Geralt vouches for you, you are welcome here in our run-down keep.”

The old Witcher turned to Jaskier then, after he shook his wolf medallion as if to check it wasn’t broken. Jaskier’s instincts told him to flee; those amber eyes were wise and shrewd, and he knew that, however old he was, Vesemir could kill him in the blink of an eye if he so wanted.

He saw the sorceress prepare for an attack, violet light shining in her palms, her eyes narrowed and her stance changing.   
  
“Yen, let him,” he cut her off gently. She looked at him, slightly scandalized, but did as she was told.

Vesemir’s steps echoed off the walls around them. They were quiet, barely audible even to Jaskier; the steps of a true monster hunter. 

Jaskier gave Yennefer a sad smile, explaining, “He has every right to be wary of a creature in his home.”

“Jaskier’s family!” Ciri raged, trying to reach them, only to have Yennefer stop her by holding her in her arms. “I won’t let anyone be cruel to him! Put me down, Yen!”

“She has spirit,” Vesemir commented, finally in front of Jaskier. He put a hand on Jaskier’s chin, cocking it up to bare his neck. It was hard not to flinch, especially once he lost the comfort of the hood over him, but he stayed still. “What is your name?”

Jaskier swallowed, hoping Yennefer would not harm Geralt’s mentor for him. “Jaskier.”

Ciri’s words had given him strength and he endured as Vesemir tilted his head this way and that, inspecting him. His hand was warm and rough, covered in callouses from a hard life. Jaskier breathed through his nose and told his instincts to quiet down, but his gills gave away his unease by moving uselessly.

“I’ve never seen anyone like you.” 

“I don’t believe there is anyone else like me, sir.” 

“Hmm.” At least he had found out where Geralt had gotten his go-to response to everything. “Are you here to hurt my people?”

Vesemir’s hand tightened it's grip, as if to test him. Jaskier blinked, remaining limp in his hold; all the tension he felt, he kept inside. It was an act he was well experienced in.

“No,” he replied, voice even. “I would not hurt you or your own, not even to save my own life.”

He wasn’t lying. He  _ would _ kill them all if they tried anything on Geralt, Yennefer or Ciri, but himself? He would not even ask for their mercy.

“Let him  _ go _ ,” Geralt’s familiar baritone demanded, his footsteps quick and light. “He’s with me!”

“I can smell that perfectly well, Geralt,” Vesemir replied. “And he certainly has the tongue of a poet, but you told us your bard was human. He is not.”

Had Geralt truly spoken about him during winters? Jaskier’s heart fluttered in shy hope, which he tried to squash. Of course, they’d known each other for decades, it meant nothing if Geralt had mentioned him in passing.

Except, his treacherous heart whispered, it did mean a lot coming from his taciturn companion.

There was a small, pregnant pause. “I didn’t know, but he’s saved us more than once. I trust him. Let him go.”

The instant Vesemir released him, Geralt was there, one hand warm on Jaskier's shoulder and the other brushing the same places he’d been touched by the older Witcher as if to check he was unharmed.

His lovely golden eyes seemed troubled. Jaskier hastened to reassure him, carefully resting one of his hands on top of the one on his shoulder. His claws showed at the end of his sleeve, but he had nothing to hide anymore, did he?

“I’m okay, Geralt.”

Geralt didn’t seem convinced but nodded. To Jaskier’s delight and surprise, he wrapped an arm around his shoulders and leaned his forehead against Jaskier’s temple. The intimacy of the touch had him almost weak at the knees.

“You’re safe here, I promise,” Geralt assured him, his tone resolute and deep.

He could’ve said anything in that moment. Jaskier would have agreed to it, woozy with their closeness. 

“He’s pretty,” Lambert chipped in. Jaskier had missed them coming inside, but Eskel and Aiden were standing by his side, the latter with a huge dead deer over his back. “Exactly your type.”

_ Pretty? _ Surely, the other Witcher could not be referring to him, Jaskier thought hysterically.

Yennefer chose that moment to free Ciri, who wasted no time in raising her tiny fists to the oldest Witcher.

Vesemir took the punches to his stomach with amusement and the air of someone with a lot of practice with children.

“She could improve on technique, but the enthusiasm is there,” he pointed out.

“Shut up, I’m mad at you! Jaskier is my friend, he is not a  _ thing _ ! YOU CAN’T TOUCH HIM LIKE THAT!” Her scream rattled the walls around them and Jaskier saw both Yennefer and Geralt growing tense.

It wasn’t the first time Jaskier had felt Chaos responding to her in such a way, but it had never been so potent and raw. He gasped when Geralt pulled him against his chest, shielding him from it.

“Ciri, calm down,” Yennefer said, steering her away from Vesemir and crouching in front of her. “Take deep, long breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth, like we practiced.”

It wasn’t working. Ciri broke down and wept instead of controlling herself and the earth under their feet started to quake.

“Aw man, an untrained witch?” he heard Aiden complain as if from a distance. “She’s gonna destroy this place!”

The Cat Witcher had a point. Jaskier could hear the foundations of the keep cracking, giving in under the pressure, and he felt bile rising up his throat as he took a quick decision and started Singing.

It was his own unfinished song that he used to cool himself off, but his intent was to calm Ciri and calm her quickly, so he used his Voice on her.

_ What's it like, the children ask? _

_ It's just like falling snow, I am above you _

_ And I love you, don't you know _

_ That I'll be with you all along, as long as you are kind… _

It worked fast enough for the keep not to fall on them all. Ciri stumbled over to him and Geralt, and Geralt caught her, without letting go of Jaskier, picking her up as she hid her face in his neck.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, wrapping her thin arms around both of them.

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Jaskier assured her. “I’m sorry I had to do that. You’re very powerful and this place is very, very old.”

Yennefer kissed Ciri on the cheek and hugged them too, her arms stretching to include Jaskier in her embrace. “I told you, losing control is not weakness. You just need practice, Ciri.”

“Lambert, Eskel, clear two rooms for Geralt and his guests,” Vesemir ordered, raising an eyebrow when the Witchers took a second too long in scrambling to obey, carrying the party's bags with them. “Aiden, you’re in charge of supper. We’ll be in the drawing room.”

He gestured for them to follow, Lambert and Aiden cursing in the background. And follow they did; Ciri in Geralt’s arms and Jaskier with Yennefer pressed close to his side, hanging from his arm.

Despite the events of the day, and the fact he’d just had to enthrall Ciri to calm her, Jaskier felt warm and content. None of them were mad at him for what he’d done, for what he  _ was, _ and he could still feel their caring touches on him _. _

He wondered if this was what it felt like to have a family that cared about you, that accepted you and that fought for you.

***

“Explain,” Vesemir said succinctly, sitting on the armchair that was closest to the center of the room.

The hearth was lit and burning, the heat almost too much for Jaskier to bear, so he sat as far away from it as he could, on the arm of one of the big, worn out sofas. Geralt and Ciri took the seat next to him and Yennefer remained standing, arms crossed and expression stormy, as if expecting more trouble. 

Jaskier ached to calm her down, but it wasn’t his place, and how could he do it? He was not made to be soft, or soothing, only to enchant.

He took Geralt’s cloak off and folded it neatly on his lap, staring at it as he began to speak.

“I never told Geralt what I was. It’s not his fault. I’ve always trusted him, but I didn’t want to push him away with the truth.” He sighed, frowning down at his talons, and kept talking. “I’m a hybrid, half-Siren, half-Banshee, but I’ve been living as a human for most of my life. When Geralt and I separated, I had yet to tell him this, and when we met again, I didn’t get a chance to do so, not with words.”

“Jaskier saved us from Nilfgaard. They want Ciri because of her power,” Geralt finished. “That’s how I found out about his nature. It was just a few weeks ago, that’s why I couldn’t tell you.”

Jaskier could sense the old man had more questions, yet he nodded in acceptance and addressed him directly.

“My medallion reacted to your Singing, but not before,” Vesemir told him. “That means I should've known better than to assume you had them under your spell, especially considering Geralt would’ve fought hard against it. Still, I had to make sure.”   
  
“I understand,” and he did, really. “Will you allow me to stay here?”

“It doesn’t matter what you are, bard,” the old Witcher answered. “You are Geralt’s pack, and by extension, our own as well. You can stay as long as you want.” He stood up and walked to where Ciri was sitting in Geralt’s lap, talking to her directly. “As for you, little Ciri, I will need you to be strong. The Chaos inside you is a wonderful thing to have, but this keep has been through too much already. It will not withstand more destruction.”

The girl nodded, looking so solemn but so young that Jaskier’s heart felt for her. “I understand. I will keep it under control.”

It was impossible for her to make such a promise, yet Vesemir looked pleased and accepted it.

“You can rest here while your rooms are ready. If you’re hungry, our pantry is well stocked. Geralt, I assume your Child Surprise will be trained in our ways as well as by the sorceress.”

“Yes!” Ciri agreed before her adoptive father could even open his mouth. “I want to be a Witcher, and a sorceress too!”

Jaskier stifled a laugh and watched the old Witcher exit the room with resignation on his shoulders.

“That went well,” he commented lightly. It was a sign that he felt more comfortable that he was running his mouth as he used to. “I mean, I did almost get shot, but all things considered, it could’ve been much, much worse, don’t you think?” He looked at his intended with a grin and praised him. “Your reflexes are a thing of beauty, truly. Thank you.”

“Don’t,” Geralt grunted, sounding almost pained. Jaskier gazed at him in concern, and that only seemed to make whatever the Witcher was feeling worse. “This was my fault. I should have asked Yen to send a message ahead.”

“Oh, yes,” Jaskier sighed. “Everything is always your fault, I’d almost forgotten.”

Yennefer snorted, finally relaxing as she sat in the chair Vesemir had vacated, like a queen overlooking her new domain.

“It’s not your fault they were rude, Geralt.” Ciri leapt to her feet and put her hands on her hips. “Do you want me to kick Vesemir in the balls too? I can do that.”

Yennefer laughed, tossing her head back. Jaskier didn’t know whether to look at her or at Geralt’s lovely, exasperated face so he took turns doing both. 

“As much as I’d love that, I think we’ve caused quite the ruckus already, little one. We should play nice, for a few days, at least,” Yennefer told Ciri.

Jaskier remembered quite vividly how both Calanthe and Eist had taken extreme pleasure and care in teaching the princess how to defend herself from unwanted suitors, so he didn’t need to ask where Ciri had learned to do the groin-kicking correctly. He was proud of her for using what she had learned in her home without letting melancholy get the best of her.

“Thank you, for…” He trailed off, throat suddenly tight, and looked at the other three, gaze pausing on Ciri, who perked up and grinned at him. “For being there for me.”

Yennefer made a dismissive gesture with her hand but her smile was fond as she returned Jaskier’s gaze. “I had to watch Vesemir get all handsy with you, you owe me for that. You should have let me stop him. If you had a Witcher  _ and _ a sorceress under any spell, it would fucking  _ show. _ ”

She grew angry as she spoke and Jaskier blinked, surprised at her vehemence.

“Yen,” Geralt called out, his voice deep, placating. “It’s over now.”

They went quiet, looking at each other, clearly communicating telepathically. Jaskier dropped his eyes to the floor, envy ruining the warmth he’d been feeling at being accepted as he witnessed them being so comfortable, so good to each other.

They didn’t really need him at all. They were just being very nice to him, for reasons he couldn’t grasp.

***

Lunch was a calm affair. Jaskier had been half certain he’d be handed raw meat and he was resigned to eating it like that, but Aiden put a heaped plate of cooked food in front of him like everyone else had and cleared his throat.

“Sorry about almost killing you,” he apologized. “I um, didn’t think.”

“I swear he has no brain, he always shoots first,” Lambert commented, long-suffering, and swatted the blond Witcher on the back of the head. “I’ll make sure he regrets it.”

“Hey! I apologized, mutt! And I didn’t actually, you know, kill him! I didn’t even touch him!”

“You’re still sleeping in the stables tonight, you stupid cat.”

“ _ Lamb. _ ”

Judging by the pleading face Aiden was directing at Lambert, Jaskier understood what kind of partners they were immediately. He smiled as he watched them, swallowing his own longing when Aiden finished getting the food on the table and sat beside Lambert, pecking his cheek and batting his eyelashes at him only for his partner to snort and look away, the blush on his face announcing to everyone Aiden would not be sleeping anywhere except in Lambert’s bed.

Ciri giggled at their antics throughout their meal. Jaskier ate very little and talked even less. Geralt kept frowning and pushing his plate closer, clearly insisting he needed to eat more, but Jaskier shook his head and spent most of the time wishing he’d put his friend’s cloak back on, heat or no heat.

He’d been welcomed, sort of, here in Geralt’s home. But he didn’t truly belong.

***

Jaskier didn’t know what he expected, but sharing a bed with Geralt was not it. It was a bigger bed than all of the previous ones they’d shared at inns but it made his skin crawl, knowing the woman Geralt loved was a few rooms away from them.

The witch had laughed at his bafflement. “Good night, boys,” she had said, like this particular arrangement wasn’t that big of a deal to her. She’d kissed both Geralt and him on the cheek and Jaskier had shivered at the touch, his scales growing hot and the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

He'd stumbled into the room and stared at the bed for a long moment as Geralt undressed down to his smallclothes.

"You really don't mind?" he asked, looking down at himself. He was still wearing Geralt's clothes and he could make himself comfortable enough to sleep on the floor with them, if Geralt decided his scales were too weird and cold to be close to.

The Witcher tilted his head at him. 

"What?"

Jaskier smiled fondly at his beloved's cluelessness and shook his head. Geralt was tired and home at last. He deserved to just go to bed without more things to fix or worry about.

Geralt waited for him to get under the covers first. He'd always preferred to sleep on the side closer to the door and this time was no exception. Jaskier hurried to undo the laces of his breeches and crawled into the bed, settling as close to the wall as he could, turning on his side to face his friend. 

His heart was deafening even to him. He was sure Geralt could hear it, even if he didn't comment on it.

He jumped when Geralt threw an arm over him and pulled him to his side.

"You're safe here, Jaskier." His voice was a deep rumble, already slurred with sleep. Jaskier watched in fascination as those piercing golden eyes closed, so trusting beside him despite his nature.

"I know, thank you," he whispered.

How could Jaskier explain that he didn't feel he was, not when being held like this by Geralt felt both right and wrong. A part of him was ecstatic and at peace at finally having his intended like this, but another remembered what they were; friends, close friends for certain, but nothing more.

Geralt's skin felt so good against him. The Witcher sighed deeply, falling asleep right in front of Jaskier's inhuman eyes. His chest rose and fell slowly, the wolf medallion Jaskier had never touched close enough to taunt him. If Jaskier accidentally brushed it, it could wake Geralt, and he didn't want that, so he stayed very still and admired Geralt's handsome profile, the stubble that graced his cheeks, the unruly locks of white hair falling on the pillow beneath his head.

Jaskier watched him for a long time before he succumbed to his own exhaustion, wishing to commit to memory every single detail.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi there, thank you for waiting for my slow ass to update. the chapter count may or may not keep going up.

It was unusual, waking up comfortable and safe instead of out in the woods or with a jolt.

Jaskier's heart made a brave attempt at a somersault when he noticed Geralt was awake and watching him intently, his golden eyes bright, even in the low light of dawn, to Jaskier’s sensitive eyes.

They were still so very close, the Witcher holding him snugly to his side, their naked legs entangled in a way that should have bothered his friend, but Geralt looked at ease and in no hurry to move.

If he were still human, Jaskier would’ve joked about having something on his face, and maybe if he was feeling particularly daring, cross the small distance between them to kiss his beloved and find out once and for all if he had a chance or not.

But the inches between them were an ocean; he was not human, and his chance had never existed. This brand new physicality only meant that Geralt was being kind to him, and Jaskier was not about to question it.

“Good morning,” he murmured and since he was not allowed to call Geralt love, his tone carried what he meant. He didn’t know if he wanted Geralt to hear it but he was hopeless to do anything but express the depth of his feelings in everything he did.

The Witcher sighed, still staring, still unmoving and relaxed in a way Jaskier had rarely witnessed, let alone felt against him.

“It’s early,” Geralt finally pointed out, soft but a little grumpy. “Go back to sleep.”

Jaskier smiled but still decided to get up, trying not to overthink the way Geralt tried to hold on to him as he did so. They needed a bath and he could only take so much closeness before the warmth turned bitter and started stinging.

“I thought Witchers would be up at dawn training,” he commented, his voice casual as he put his borrowed clothes on.

“Hmm,” was all Geralt replied, burrowing into the furs like a spoiled child.

“Well, I for one would like to stop smelling like horse, though I am aware it doesn’t bother you,” Jaskiee said. “Am I to venture out into your home in search of a bath or are you helping me?”

There was a grunt, and then Geralt grumbled, sitting up, his hair artfully tousled, his toned body almost ethereal in the gentle sunrays coming in. “Fine.” 

Really, the man was too gorgeous to look at. Still, Jaskier looked his fill before busying himself hiding beneath the cloak he’d been wearing during their journey.

They went down so many stairs Jaskier wanted to whine about it, but he held his tongue. He’d gotten his friend out of bed, the least he could do was behave for a little while.

He’d seen Geralt naked many times before. It had always been tempting and it had always been forbidden, out of his reach. This time was no different. He stripped, ignoring the nagging voice in his head that reminded him he was ugly now, and tested the water until he found a pool that was lukewarm instead of piping hot.

There was unscented soap and wash cloths in a corner and Jaskier grabbed them, scrubbing himself clean methodically and quickly before tying a towel around his waist and turning a bucket upside down to sit on behind Geralt’s head.

“You, my friend, are a mess,” he declared. The Witcher looked up at him, rolling his eyes at his words, but dutifully ducked down and got thoroughly wet for Jaskier to wash him.

It was hard, getting used to these hands that weren’t made for gentle touching, for caring. These hands were weapons more than anything else, but Jaskier made do with them, carefully using the pads of his fingertips and his palms so as not to scratch Geralt’s scalp as he washed the dirt out of those long white locks of hair. 

He knew the man would not even complain if he accidentally drew blood with his claws, but he would not be able to stomach it if he did.

There had been years during which this would have been relaxing for Geralt. He would go almost limp in the tub and close his eyes, and a lovely rumbling sound would leave his lips every now and then. That had been before the witch, obviously; then they were back to this exchange just being convenient and something Geralt seemed to endure more than enjoy.

As if summoned by Jaskier’s thoughts, Yennefer stepped into the hot springs, clad in only a thin black robe that she dropped to the floor, uncaring about her nakedness, and joined Geralt in his bath.

“Good morning, boys,” she greeted with a smirk, violet eyes sharp as she watched them.

Jaskier tried not to mourn his time taking care of his beloved, now cut short. It truly wasn’t his place--if anyone was to help clean Geralt’s sweat off his body it was Yennefer. At least, he thought, she didn’t seem mad at finding them like this.

Would she, he wondered, if he told her how they had slept?

“Good morning, Yennefer,” he replied softly, gesturing for Geralt to rinse his hair before standing up. “I’ll, um, leave you two to it.”

“Don’t be silly, Jaskier.” The sorceress rolled her eyes at his retreat. “Stay with us. Ciri will sleep for a couple more hours, I gather, and we’re safe. Let’s enjoy this novelty, shall we?”

Jaskier was about to open his mouth to thank her but make his excuses when Geralt held a hand out to him, his golden eyes carrying a message that for once, Jaskier couldn’t decipher.

Perhaps he was out of practice, but he would bet money--if he had any--that that particular soft look in the Witcher’s eyes was new.

“Stay,” Geralt repeated. Jaskier was helpless to do anything but take his hand and get into the water. The Witcher pulled him close to his left side before letting go. Yennefer took the other side. The hot spring had been big for Geralt alone, but it was a tad too small for the three of them, or maybe that was just Jaskier feeling half dizzy with the warmth and their proximity to him.

Yennefer was as breathtaking as her lover; nevertheless Jaskier did not look. He’d seen enough, and this time his heart held sweetness for her in it instead of only sour resentment. He was certain that, whatever body he was in, he’d react to her lovely curves and perfect skin.

She washed herself, splashing water on Geralt’s face when he made no move to help and just stared.

“I swear, you’re the least romantic man on the whole Continent,” she groused but there was a teasing smile on her face. “Jaskier, would you help me with my hair?”

“I, of course, yes,” he croaked. Her hair was softer and longer than Geralt’s, and Jaskier tried his best to untangle it as he used a bit of soap to take the grime out of it. 

Yennefer sighed when he kneaded her head as gently as he could, and he almost jumped when he felt Geralt’s arm wrapping around his back.

“You’re good at that,” the Witcher commented and if he could smell feelings, like people thought his kind could, Jaskier was so very fucked.

“He is. And you’re good at getting dirty,” the sorceress teased. “How convenient. Too bad you’ll have to share these deft fingers with me now, isn't it?”

“Hmm.”

Their praise, their trust--it was too much but at the same time exactly what he wanted, what he needed. When he was asked to leave their side, he was going to break into so many tiny pieces the wind would carry them away, never to be found.

He swallowed that fear, smiling slightly as they kept sniping at each other. It was funny that Geralt thought he could get anywhere against his lover's wit by just rolling his eyes and grunting.

Jaskier used to be so good at living in the moment. That was the essence of being a travelling bard after all. He could get good at it again and just cherish what he was given, for however long it lasted.

They stayed in the water for a long while, long enough for Jaskier to stop feeling like he was intruding, and long enough that even Geralt’s fingers had wrinkled like prunes. He seemed so puzzled by the fact that Jaskier chuckled at him along with Yennefer.

“Sit down,” the witch ordered, pulling her robe back on without much care. Jaskier obliged after covering himself with a towel, using the same improvised stool he’d washed Geralt’s hair on. He pointedly did not stare at her breasts. “I’m going to heal your scales now. It might tingle, but it shouldn’t hurt.”

“You don’t have to--” he tried, but she was already channeling Chaos through her hands, the air crisp with ozone, and he gasped as he felt the new scales slam into place.

“There, done.” She started to dry her hair with a towel, and if the spell had tired her in any way, it didn’t show.

“Thank you, Yennefer,” Jaskier said, still breathless for more reasons than he could count, poking his middle where no signs of his previous wounds remained.

_Scales are not skin_. He made the conscious decision to not look at Geralt. No doubt the Witcher would be relieved Jaskier’s armour was not in tatters anymore.

He did not miss the reminder of his battles, but being whole again brought him no joy. He was still a monster, mingling with people in a place that was not meant for him, and he’d wasted so many years trying to belong somewhere that it was very trying to pretend otherwise.

He got dressed in Geralt’s clothes again, fresh from the closet in his room. Although Jaskier had enjoyed and taken comfort in wearing them so far, without the Witcher’s scent on them the ill-fittingness only helped to make his chest ache more.

He had given everything up for Geralt, and would do so again in a heartbeat, but he still missed the life he had so carefully, painstakingly built for himself. The life of a handsome human troubadour; lover of many, partner of no one, songwriter and singer extraordinaire, a life where his biggest love was his music and one in which his voice was his main instrument instead of a weapon.

Of course he missed his lute too; his beautiful, sexy girl. But she would be safe back in Oxenfurt. Had Jaskier brought her along, she’d be long gone.

Yennefer went up the stairs with them and past the kitchens, in search of Ciri. Geralt urged her to be quick, so they could all break their fast together, and made Jaskier sit as he heated spiced wine and put already prepared dough in to cook.

It was so domestic, watching him move around his home. Gods, Jaskier wanted to stay here forever and never take his eyes off of him, heartache be damned.

***

Jaskier missed being attractive. He knew, rationally, that he was in the best place on the whole Continent to be the abomination that he'd always been under his disguise. Witchers knew better than to care about appearances.

Yet he missed looking in the mirror with hope brimming between his lungs, thinking, _this time someone will love me_.

He'd been reassuring both himself and Geralt, that day before the mess during Pavetta's betrothal banquet. _Someone out there will want you_. He had to believe that too, otherwise why had he abandoned everything he knew and ventured into a world that thought of him as an animal instead of a person?

Humans could be so greedy. They wanted everything to belong only to them, Jaskier thought sourly. Magic, humanity, all the land as well.

He sighed, watching the Witchers train an energetic ex-princess from the sidelines. It was cold, but he was wearing Geralt's cloak more for the comfort it brought his heart than to warm himself up.

He had the hood over his head, but his eyes had excellent peripheral vision. He could watch them perfectly and still feel moderately hidden from view. 

Oh, of course they knew he was there. It was Jaskier that wanted to remain unseen. He had no skin to feel it crawl, but he was hurting somewhere beneath his scales, in that greyish tissue that was so fish-like Jaskier burned with shame and self-hatred whenever he thought of it.

He'd always loved beautiful things, long before he'd even learned how to talk and sing, had always dreamed of having a mate to spend whatever time they had together with. He had been too little to understand he was not pretty, back then, and definitely hadn't pictured himself falling in love with someone meant to kill him.

At least he had a place with Geralt's family. The last few days had made him realize this, though he was still bewildered about why anyone would want him around.

Ciri and Yen seemed adamant about proving him wrong at every opportunity; the girl leaning against his side to rest between her training and lessons, babbling to him about everything she was learning, and the witch pulling him around by the hand with a twinkle in her eyes as if daring Jaskier to tell her to leave him alone.

Geralt's bare hint of a smile was almost constantly present and it grew into a proper smile whenever the Witcher found him staring. This, most of all, made Jaskier feel he was finally where he belonged.

Perhaps, he mused, he ought to learn to want this familial love and nothing else. It was more than he deserved, that much he knew, and if he still wanted more, well, that just proved he was the fool everyone had always said he was.

***

"Geralt, I'm fucking telling you I'll do the talking, but you need to be there," Yennefer was grousing, clearly irritated.

Jaskier froze, his breath catching in his throat. They were talking about him.

Did they want him gone after all?

"I think we've done enough," Geralt countered, in that deep, raspy tone he reached when done with a topic of conversation, which admittedly always happened very fast.

Jaskier's heart throbbed in his chest.

"Words, Geralt!" the sorceress all but shouted, "He's a fucking _bard_! Words mean everything to him, actions are just embellishments for words to him!"

"I'm sure it's the other way around."

"Of course you'd think that. One could be convinced you'd drop dead if you uttered more than a single sentence together, unless you've put your cock to use and are sated and loose from it, but we are not bedding him until we've talked, so that's out of the question."

_What_ \--

Jaskier turned on his heel and left quickly the way he'd come to collect them for lunch to Geralt's room. He didn't know what the couple was talking about, but he was most certainly going to die of misery if they knew some other bard and wanted whoever the lucky fucker was to share their bed.

_It should be me_ , he roared inside. _Whoever it is, I will kill him_.

Jaskier's Shriek was pushing to come out, as it always did whenever he let violence take a hold of him, but he swallowed it down and rushed out of the keep.

He knew there was a body of water somewhere in the forest. He'd heard Geralt's brothers complaining it was frozen enough to prevent fishing, but not enough to be safe to take Ciri to practice there.

If he concentrated, he could hear the water hum beneath the ice. 

He dropped Geralt's cloak on his way out of the castle and did not look back.

***

His talons were bloody when he was done breaking through the small lake's surface.

Fabric would just hinder him so he stripped and dived, gills working overtime to soothe him in the midst of his breakdown.

It was mind-numbingly cold, exactly what he needed to stop wanting to lash out and hurt others just because he was hurting too.

He'd always been so very proud of his humanity, but deep down, he was aware he could turn savage and vicious at the drop of a hat if he wasn't careful.

He swam deeper, observing the creatures already living in the lake giving him a wide berth. They too could tell he was a dangerous monster. Jaskier did not blame them, but he couldn't exactly explain he wasn't there to feed.

There was a cave at the bottom, on the right, and only inside it did Jaskier feel safe enough to let out a wail.

Yennefer and Geralt's words were a blurry mess in his mind. Logically, he knew they were talking about him. Yennefer had been trying to convince her lover to sit through something she needed to tell Jaskier. Geralt didn't seem keen on the idea. And then… no, he had to have heard wrong. Acute senses or not, he was still a godsdammned _fool_. They would never, in a thousand years, even consider inviting a monster to be intimate with them, to share the special, unbreakable bond they had.

But it was too much. The envy, the rage, the loss, the hope, all swirling inside of him.

His mother used to tell him it was okay to cry. Their tears kept the ocean salty, as it was meant to be, and the sea protected them from prying eyes in return. No one could tell when a Siren was crying under the sea.

This was no sea, and it was cold comfort, but down here Jaskier knew no one would hear him or find any trace of his sorrow.

***

He stayed under long enough for the water to solidify once more. His claws broke through easier this time since it was still thin ice and he winced as he leaned on his mangled hands to pull himself out.

It was dusk. For once, his eyes would be a blessing to help him find the way back to the Witchers' keep.

A childish part of him had wanted--hoped for--Geralt to be waiting, or looking for him, for the Witcher to sprint out of the trees to take Jaskier back to his home, a home he'd been willing to share with him despite all the years he'd been lied to.

Jaskier straightened his back and dressed. Wallowing was over, he'd decided; he had a home now. He had a home, if he wanted, and oh, how he wanted.

The clothes he'd been wearing were drenched from the snow, so being wet didn't make much of a difference.

He trudged out of the forest, each of his pointy fingers aching something fierce, but it was nothing compared to the storm he'd weathered in his heart so he paid no mind to his injuries and only focused on trying to find the Trail.

It was not easy. Maybe it was warded against creatures? In the end, Jaskier gave up and closed his eyes, trying to zero in on the awareness he always had of Geralt and, lately, Yennefer.

They were both unharmed so it was very faint but thankfully still enough for Jaskier to find his way back to them.

Yennefer and Geralt were still arguing. That, if anything, would have been enough to guide Jaskier the last few feet to the outer gates. It was pitch black, with no moon to provide even a little bit of light.

"STOP IT!" Ciri screamed and Jaskier hurried as the ground under him trembled.

They were in the yard, with Ciri breathing hard between them and looking ready to scream again, when they saw him.

"Jaskier," Yennefer breathed out, something very fragile in her voice as she ran to him and threw her slender arms around him. "Foolish bard, where have you been?"

"Uh, out for a swim?" he replied unconvincingly, even though it was the truth, trying to hug the witch back without getting any blood on her elegant cloak.

Ciri wiggled between them and clung to Jaskier's neck. "Take me with you next time? I won't get in the water if it's too cold, but I thought you left."

"Oh, sweetheart," Jaskier kept an arm around Yennefer but patted Ciri's back with the other. "I just needed to be alone for a while, I'm sorry I worried you."

Geralt was clutching his own discarded cloak, his expression pinched as he looked at Jaskier. He was definitely angry and Jaskier swallowed and pulled his gaze away. He’d been so worried about disappointing or making Geralt mad at him, and he’d apparently done both without even realizing.

It hurt, letting go of Yen and Ciri, but he did and stood with his chin tilted down. He felt like a child about to be scolded.

“You were gone,” Geralt rasped, “a long time. These mountains are not safe, Jaskier.”

“I can take care of myself,” he affirmed, though the Witcher was surely already staring at his wounded hands, unimpressed by his ability to do so.

“Ciri, why don’t you go with Eskel? I’m sure he’ll tell you a good story before bed,” Yennefer told the girl. Geralt’s brother was waiting for them quietly by the inner doors, and he nodded with a smile, beckoning Ciri to him.

Ciri didn’t seem pleased but sighed and went meekly, taking Eskel’s hand to go into the keep after looking back at Jaskier with a face that promised he’d be in big trouble if he left without her again. It helped him breathe a little deeper, and he nodded to reassure her that he’d understood the message.

“Well then.” Yennefer took his arm and started walking inside too. “Let’s get you fixed up and get you something to eat, you must be hungry.”

Jaskier started trembling under her touch, as he hadn't done in a while. The sorceress didn’t sound mad or frustrated, and her touch was gentle and unassuming, which he was grateful for. He didn’t think he could handle it, if she grew hostile toward him at the same time Geralt seemed to want to knock some sense into him with his fists.

Geralt trailed behind them like a prowling alpha wolf, making sure his pack was okay. Jaskier loved him and knew him well, he understood his friend’s anger came from a place of caring, but it was not what Jaskier needed at that moment. It only made him want to run, before he was pushed away again. 

_If life could give me one blessing_...

The ache of their separation last time still throbbed, Jaskier wasn’t sure it’d ever stop.

He let Yennefer lead the way to the kitchens, sitting down absently when she told him to and trying not to flinch as she took one of his hands in hers to inspect, moving his fingers to look for broken bones under the abused tissues and mangled claws. Jaskier endured her examination, barely wincing at the flashes of pain.

Yennefer sighed and looked up into his eyes. “You heard us earlier, didn’t you?”

Jaskier withdrew his hand quickly and turned away from her. “It’s none of my business, you don’t have to explain.”

Geralt busied himself putting some leftovers on the table. He stood beside Jaskier, arms crossed and scowl thunderous. “Let Yen heal you. Eat. Then we’ll talk.”

“Right.” Jaskier made no move to make any of that easier and just shut his eyes tight. “Right. Just so we’re clear, If you want me to go, I’d appreciate it if you could just… tell me now, please.”

“Fuck, what--that’s not--” Geralt half-bristled, half-stuttered. Jaskier blinked and stared at him in confusion. “That’s not it.”

“Whatever might have given Jaskier that impression, I wonder?” Yennefer inquired aloud, looking at her lover loftily. “It’s not like you’ve been sleeping, holding him in your arms for days _without saying anything to him_.”

“You knew about that?” Jaskier squeaked. “I didn’t mean--I--”

“You two would be lost without me.” The sorceress shook her head, extending a hand to Jaskier. “Yes, yes, I know. Now let me heal you, you’re dripping blood.”

Jaskier cringed, noticing Yennefer was right, and sat facing her, putting his left hand in hers. The dark, nasty stains on the floor made him sick, and he closed his eyes again as she used magic to heal his wounds. It tingled and pulled but didn't hurt, his hands were even warm for a moment with Yennefer's residual Chaos.

A part of him still wondered, puzzled, why she was bothering at all. Why, when she could have anyone she wanted and step over anyone in her way, she insisted on looking at Jaskier like he was worth something to her.

“There were a couple of fractures, Jaskier. A bard should be more careful with his hands,” she lectured.

It was just too much, still too much. He should've stayed down in the icy water and never come up, alone and away from the people he loved. That's where he belonged.

“Do I look like a bard to you?” Jaskier sneered, showing his fangs. “Don’t coddle me, Yennefer. I know what I am.”

“I don’t think you do,” she objected, her tone so very careful it was disarming. "You think your glamour was all you were, but it was not, Jaskier."

"You're still you, Jaskier," Geralt rasped, making him jump. At some point between Jaskier getting unnecessarily defensive and Yennefer shutting him down, the Witcher had stopped looking angry, his golden eyes soft like the first rays of sunshine in the morning.

_Am I?_ His inhuman eyes filled with tears, with no sea or lake to hide them away.

Even if that was true, would he be enough? _Was_ he good enough to stay?

He saw Yennefer shushing Geralt and gathering some bread, mead and honey from the table. He felt Geralt pulling him gently to his feet as tears rolled down his cheeks.

They flanked him as they went up the stairs. Jaskier let them. If he knew one thing by then, it was that wherever they went, he would follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter summary: jaskier has the sads, no brain cells


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for being slow, i'm not... having the best of times, mentally.

As soon as they were behind closed doors, Geralt pulled him into his arms, holding on tight even as Jaskier was just limp against him. 

Yennefer waved her hand in a vague gesture, and the room was lit by candles.

"That day on the mountain," Geralt rumbled, clearly grasping for words, and any other time it would've been so endearing, but right then Jaskier just wanted to  _ run. _ "Yennefer left, and I knew… I knew I couldn't stand it if you… if you left as well."

_ I would never leave you _ , Jaskier thought distantly, except he had, hadn't he? Geralt had been obviously hurting and he'd lashed out, and Jaskier had still left.

"So I made you leave," Geralt kept going. "I couldn't watch, but I made you. I heard you leaving."

Jaskier shook his head, taking in a shuddering breath to say how fucking sorry he was, what a pathetic excuse of a friend he was, but Yennefer pushed them both towards the bed and Geralt sat on the mattress. Jaskier ended up sitting on his thigh, the sorceress kneeling on the floor between Geralt's spread legs.

"He needed that time alone to get his shit together," Yennefer stated simply, looking up at Jaskier with a small smile. "And we needed a break from his horseshit. In the end, it all worked out. We found each other again, and we found Ciri."

She looked just as regal as always, her black dress flowing effortlessly about her, the obsidian star around neck shining as much as her violet eyes. 

Jaskier flinched, and hated himself for doing so, when she reached up to wipe his cheek. He was still wet from his escapade so the gesture served no other purpose than to comfort him. He wanted to lean into the touch, but the best he could manage was to stay put and accept it.

"I think, maybe, without the djinn you two would've been together before you met me," Yennefer mused, running her fingertips so very gently over Jaskier’s cold scales to wipe his tears away. "I asked Geralt about a hundred times if you were, when he brought you half-dead for me to heal. He offered me anything, you see, and that's not something I hear often. I knew, right then, that he had to love you, even if he was too stupid to see it himself."

Geralt grunted and Jaskier turned to watch him. He'd seen his beloved doused in potions, pale as a corpse, tanned stunningly from the sun if they travelled through fields during spring and summer; he'd seen Geralt's complexion in every variation he thought he could have and yet there he was with a faint pink flush on his cheeks.

"I thought you couldn't blush," he whispered in awe, fingers hovering over the darker spots on Geralt's skin.

"I'm not fucking  _ blushing _ ."

"You are, too," Yennefer laughed. "If you ride him well enough, he also flushes during sex."

Jaskier's mind skidded to a halt at that. He'd seen Geralt's cock many times, and he'd seen Geralt and Yennefer going at it too, but he'd survived a long time without picturing himself in the sorceress's place and he was not about to change that.

He looked down and tried to stand, to get away from this thing they were offering that he didn’t understand but wanted so very much it felt like if he accepted, he was going to break when they were done.

Geralt kept his arm firmly around Jaskier's waist as he struggled weakly, and used his other hand to help him breach the distance once he’d gone limp again, to touch the Witcher’s face where he was still a little too warm. 

He did not want to get away, Jaskier realized. Even if he ended up shattered beyond repair, he’d take anything they were willing to give him first.

“Yen,” Geralt said, though it was Jaskier he was holding, Jaskier who he was looking at as if he was something dear to hold instead of a beast.

Yennefer raised both her hands this time and placed one on each of their temples. Jaskier’s brow furrowed, his heart tried to jump out of his chest, and his breath stuttered when she slammed inside his mind with memories and feelings that weren’t his or hers.

Looking at the world through his beloved’s eyes was an experience Jaskier hadn't known was available to him. The Continent, the Path, the people and everything in it, they seemed so bleak, so cold. Jaskier gasped as the colours, the smells and sounds, everything turned overwhelming and not in a good way.

Roach was a point of calm in a lonely, cruel existence. Petting her and talking to her soothed Geralt’s heart, but not enough for him or Jaskier to stop feeling the gaping void in it.

“I wanted him to go away,” Geralt told his mare, raspy and forlorn. Roach’s big, expressive eyes stared at the Witcher as he scritched between her ears. “And now I can’t find him, Roach, and war is coming.”

Jaskier saw unending lines of Nilfgaardian soldiers marching as Geralt watched from a high vantage point, anger and anxiety eating away at him.

Yennefer dropped her hands then, and Jaskier sobbed, cupping Geralt’s face as he confessed, “I never wanted to leave you. I’m so very sorry, Geralt.”

Geralt pressed their foreheads together, shaking his head slightly. “I know, Jaskier.”

His hand moved from Jaskier’s waist to his nape, his head tilting just enough for their mouths to touch. It was barely a kiss at first, and yet Jaskier shivered, closing his eyes as he tried to commit to memory the feeling of having Geralt so near he could almost taste him. He didn’t open his lips, afraid to hurt and cut with his sharp teeth, but Geralt seemed content to just remain close and slide his lips over his in a gentle caress that Jaskier could’ve lost himself in forever.

He blinked when Geralt broke the kiss with a smile. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to see Geralt smile that way more often. He wasn’t expecting Yennefer to lean on his knee and surge up to nip where Geralt had kissed him, and he gasped and returned the more heated kiss with a ball of nerves heavy in the pit of his stomach. He doubted his mouth had a pleasant taste for humans, whether it was the sea or death that they could taste on him, but Yennefer was determined to coax him out of his shell and with the quiet, breathy sounds she was making, Jaskier gradually relaxed and stopped overthinking.

He could taste copper and almost freaked out, but Yennefer laughed and licked both their lips as they parted, her mouth, kiss-swollen and scraped from Jaskier’s teeth, seemingly not bothering her at all. Geralt grunted, leaning down to kiss her and pull her up to his other thigh. Yennefer allowed it, one of her hands finding Jaskier’s fingers to entwine and guide his arm around her trim waist, and it was all so easy, to follow their lead and forget he wasn’t human, wasn’t desirable by anyone’s standards except--except theirs, apparently, because as they shared kisses and touches they were suddenly lying in bed, and Geralt was unlacing Yennefer’s dress before stripping Jaskier’s shirt off him, and Jaskier could not  _ breathe _ as he suddenly remembered he was not to come in between them for not only was he a freak, but also they were already a perfect match without him.

He scrambled off the bed and stumbled, falling onto his knees and crawling until his back hit the opposite wall. He stared at them, a scream lodged in his throat, but he was scared and not in control so he forbade himself from making any kind of noise.

“Jaskier,” Geralt called softly. Jaskier’s inhuman ears picked up his almost silent footsteps coming closer, and he curled up, covering his ears and hiding his face in his knees because if he saw or heard their disappointment he was going to fucking kill himself.

“We should have asked,” Yennefer sighed. “I got a little carried away.”

Jaskier was shaking his head, struggling to speak. “I don’t understand, I’m not--” pretty, good enough; he didn’t know how to  _ explain _ just how much he was lacking. “How can you want me?”

“We were always missing something,” the sorceress’s voice was quiet as she admitted it. “I thought it was the djinn, its magic robbing us of something we would’ve had if it hadn’t forced us together.”

Yennefer was sitting on the foot of the bed, facing them with her dress falling off her shoulders, when Jaskier dared to peek at them. Geralt was sitting beside him on the floor, bare shoulder brushing his if he breathed deep enough.

“I was so angry at Geralt for it, I felt toyed with. Every time I tried to leave him, something would just pull me back and it wasn’t enough, no matter how many times he told me I was important. I kept thinking it was all the djinn, and having Ciri helped me forgive him, but it didn’t change the fact that we weren’t exactly…” She paused and Jaskier could see how frustrated she was, either at the situation she was describing or herself for not finding the words, or both. “This is what we do best,” she gestured vaguely towards the bed and gave Jaskier a shrewd look. “I’m sure you remember what we are like on our own. You sang about it quite nicely, how was it that you put it? She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss?”

Jaskier cringed at having his ballad quoted, knowing her better than he did when he composed it. “That… I was jealous, Yennefer. I always was. It meant nothing more than that.”

“You were right to be,” Yennefer conceded. “You’ve chosen him, time and again, and yet Geralt chose me, even though I wanted everything, far more than he could give me.”

Slowly, giving him time to recoil, Geralt put his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders. Jaskier gazed at them both, and only settled slightly when Yennefer walked to them and slotted against Jaskier’s other side, her hair tickling his neck as she rested her head on his shoulder.

“I wanted you both by my side,” Geralt confessed, deep and unwavering. “With the djinn, I tied Yen to me, and it was wrong. I hurt you, both of you, because it was the only way I trusted I wouldn’t--”

“Be left alone,” Jaskier finished for him. “Oh, Geralt, you are such a fool.”

“He’s not the only fool,” Yennefer pointed out, tired but somehow fond as well. She turned, pressing a warm kiss to Jaskier’s shoulder. “I guess I have a type, you could say.”

“I have a type too,” said Geralt, nuzzling against Jaskier’s temple. “Powerful, beautiful, could've had anyone they wanted, yet they still stayed with me.”

“But I’m not.” Jaskier shuddered and turned to look at the Witcher, about twenty arguments on the tip of his tongue, but then Yennefer was in his mind again, her hand firm over half his face, and he gasped, not knowing what he was seeing, only that it was from them.

He saw himself, mouth parted in a Shriek and slaying soldiers as easily as a dull knife cutting butter. His scales shone under the sun, ethereal and almost blinding, in every shade of blue and turquoise, his black hair pushed back with his quick and lethal moves. Swords and lances tried to harm him and mostly missed as he fought, blood spraying around him in elegant swirls as if on command.

He saw himself singing quietly to himself or Ciri, heard such richness and sweetness in his voice that he understood he wasn’t only hearing notes, but also feelings that his voice evoked.

Even through Geralt and Yennefer’s eyes, Jaskier still couldn’t understand what they felt for him. But he was convinced it wasn’t something fleeting or shallow, something that, once satisfied, would leave him alone and aching more than ever.

He blinked, once again seeing through his own eyes, and stared down at his monstrous body. He hated it, he'd learned to despise it so very early in his life that he'd thought his only chance of finding a mate who could want him was to change into something else.

But his claws… they had saved the people he loved more than once. His Voice as well, both monstrous attributes of it, had been of use to protect them. His scales had prevented him from falling too soon against the enemy. 

Maybe he wasn't so abhorrent as he'd thought.

"What do I taste like?" he heard himself asking. It was a fucking stupid question, but Geralt chuckled, entwining their fingers together.

"Like a breath of fresh air," the Witcher replied matter-of-factly, his nose buried behind Jaskier's pointy ear. "You smell like the ocean and the earth after it rains."

"Careful there, or I might get jealous," Yennefer teased, her head once again resting on Jaskier's shoulder and her hand mimicking Geralt's with his free one. "It doesn't sound like poetry when you say I smell of lilacs and gooseberries."

"Hmm.”

They were both so relaxed it was almost impossible to keep listening to the nagging voice in the back of his head, the one that was trying to remind Jaskier this could not be for him; their affection, their touch, he was unworthy of it.

"I love you both, so very much," he breathed out like it was a secret, though it hardly was by this point. 

He knew they didn't need his words, but he felt like it was all he had to offer. 

It felt fair, baring his soul after they'd shown him part of theirs.

"I've loved you for decades, Geralt, and falling in love with you, Yennefer, was as terrifying and unstoppable as meeting you back in Rinde. My heart was meant for just one so perhaps you are two halves of a whole, and I can't see how I fit in, but I'm grateful you've made a place for me all the same."

Gingerly, he raised their joined hands to brush his thin, cold lips over their knuckles.

"All my life, I've wanted somewhere to belong. I'd be honored to have that place be beside you. Nothing could make me happier than loving you and protecting you for as long as I can."

He was a little more prepared when they kissed him this time. Yennefer went first, fierce and hungry but ending it softly and almost reverently. Geralt's kiss was longer and exactly the opposite, starting sweet only to stoke a fire in Jaskier's belly that he was not sure he was ready for.

"I thought unconditional love was a lie until I met you," Yennefer admitted, looking him in the eyes. "Whenever I encountered you and Geralt, I hated you for the way you looked at each other without even realizing."

Jaskier startled. "You were jealous too." 

The sorceress laughed, a short, bittersweet thing. She didn't have to say anything else for Jaskier to understand; Geralt had complicated everything for them with the wish he'd made to the djinn, robbing Jaskier of his mate and denying Yennefer the surety of knowing their feelings were true. 

Now they both had to do what they could with what was left.

"Let's go to bed," Geralt said after a long but comfortable pause. Jaskier tensed again as they both pulled him to his wobbly feet until Geralt added roughly, "To sleep."

Yennefer took off her dress and borrowed Geralt's discarded shirt to use as a nightgown. Geralt was already only in smallclothes, yet he insisted on waiting for them to get under the covers first.

Jaskier put the shirt he'd been wearing back on and undid his trousers, snorting as he noticed Yennefer rolling her eyes at Geralt settling closer to the door with them against the wall, Jaskier in the middle.

"I'll have your new glamour ready soon," Yennefer told him as a goodnight, the candles going out with a flick of her wrist before she snuggled against his side.

"Thank you," Jaskier said against her hair, and he did not mean just for that reassurance.

"Sleep," Geralt grunted, his arm going over them both, his nose buried in Jaskier's neck.

Jaskier smiled into the darkness, his hand joining Yennefer's over Geralt's resting on his chest.

He stayed wide awake for a long time, cherishing the feeling of being enveloped by love, of being wanted and cared for, while doing his best to ignore the itch in every nerve of his body that told him it was somehow wrong.

##  ***

It was Ciri who presented him with a medallion the next day after lunch as everyone rested in the drawing room before the Witchers and their apprentice went back to work.

It was smaller than Geralt's, with a shorter chain and a blue sheen that made Jaskier wonder what exactly it was made of, but he was too distracted admiring the wolf, the sparrow, the star and the buttercup carved into it to ask.

"Do you like it?" Ciri asked with a little jump. "I told Yen to make it pretty! And I helped make it too!"

"I love it," Jaskier answered in earnest. 

The chain was thankfully long enough for him to just put it over his head without unlocking it and he felt their combined Chaos embracing him for a second before it seemed to vanish along with his scales, leaving pale skin in its wake.

He stared, entranced, at his human fingers before touching his cheek, smooth and warm once more. He felt the curls over his head, soft and not wet. He was clad in Geralt's clothes, which fit him almost as well as in his true form, and he hadn't been wearing boots since they had no spares so he wiggled his toes and beamed at Yennefer and Ciri.

"Thank you! It's perfect."

"Of course it is," Yennefer said haughtily from her seat beside Geralt. "Now to the fun part, use your Voice. I want to see if it holds."

Jaskier's bubbly happiness almost evaporated at that. He clutched the medallion as if the witch had demanded it back. 

"We could wait! I don't need to use it right now."

"Yen," Geralt pressed.

She sighed. "Fine. We'll wait, but I want to know before tonight."

Jaskier decided to ignore the last part in favor of taking Ciri's hand and singing a ditty with his bard voice so they could dance around the room.

It wasn't long before Lambert mock-asked his partner for a dance in an overly formal tone, bowing in front of him as if asking a noble at court, to which Aiden answered in kind but could hardly keep a straight face as they danced.

Ciri was delighted so Jaskier could only sing more.

***

After a week of peace in the keep, Ciri seemed to be having less nightmares and Yennefer moved into Geralt's room.

Jaskier enjoyed the few nights they snuggled together to sleep while being human. Their touch felt simultaneously like too much and exactly what he wanted when he was… what he truly was ( _ a monster _ ), so he hadn’t been able to completely enjoy it the first time. 

Yennefer huffed but allowed him to keep the medallion around his neck. Sleeping between them was better than any dream Jaskier had never dared to have and he even felt well rested.

Eventually though, Yennefer’s patience seemed to run out. 

The enchantress waited until they were ready for bed to take the illusion away and leave Jaskier bare to their eyes again.

"I don't want you hiding behind it," she told him, unrepentant, ignoring the way Jaskier had flinched away at changing back without warning.

He felt bile rising up his throat, but it had been her gift. She could take it away, couldn't she? She had every right.

"Yen," Geralt berated, taking the medallion from her hands and placing it back over Jaskier's head. "Give him  _ time. _ "

Jaskier took advantage of the fact they were clearly arguing telepathically to kick the sheets off of himself and crawl out of the bed.

He didn't know which one was worse; Yennefer's approach of forcing him to accept his true nature or Geralt's inclination to let him decide when he was ready, which if Jaskier were to guess would be  _ never _ .

Both of them were making him feel wrong, stupid. A bother, a pesky little child that hadn't learned how to behave yet but should have by now.

He got dressed again, ignoring how the Witcher's clothes were broader than he was, but no larger in height. Not even the precious human pelt he was wearing could make him smaller, like he wanted. Could there be a spell for turning invisible when he needed to, when all he wanted was to hide and disappear?

"Where are you going?" Yennefer asked, irate, as Jaskier turned the door handle.

"I'm going to spend the night with Ciri," he announced, his voice perfectly even, his back to them. "You two have a good night."

He closed the door behind him without looking back because his heart wanted to see longing in their eyes but his mind knew better than to hope for that.

***

Ciri accepted him without any questions, curling against his side after asking for a story about her parents. Jaskier delivered; he'd made a career of storytelling and for once, the content didn't need any embellishments on his part for the tale to be what his audience wanted.

She needed to remember them and Jaskier wanted the same.

He'd already blown out the two candles in the room and thought her to be asleep when she spoke softly.

"Are you going to leave now that you can?"

It was easy, even with his dull human senses, to feel her quick heartbeat. He felt his eyes filling with tears at her fear and he wrapped an arm around her small shoulders, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

"No, sweetheart, I'm not leaving," he promised. "We're a family, aren't we? Where would I go?"

Ciri hugged him tight, burying her face in his shirt. She wasn't crying, but she was wide awake and trembling, so Jaskier tried to soothe her with a lullaby he'd composed for her years ago.

His throat had gone a little dry by the time she fell asleep. He followed soon, and breathed slowly so as not to disturb her every time he woke up from nightmare after nightmare, all variations of him not being what Geralt and Yennefer wanted.

***

His pride demanded he left the next morning, so it was definitely a good thing he'd promised Ciri he would stay.

Still, he had to swallow the urge to throw the medallion at Yennefer as everyone sat together to break their fast.

He spooned his porridge, listening to the easy conversation around him with one ear, the other one busy with his own inner tirade.

He was being monumentally stupid, that much he knew. But it did nothing to change the misery and shame swirling in his chest.

Geralt and Yennefer cared for him, as ludicrous as that was, but if Jaskier could not do what they wanted, if he could not  _ deliver,  _ he had no way of knowing how long that would last.

His whole adult life had been a performance, had been about reading what his public wanted, both in court and in taverns, and most definitely in bed, and giving it his all, so what… what was he supposed to do, when it was his intended and the woman they both loved that he was meant to please?

"Could we go down to town?" he asked during a lull in everyone's conversations.

He was looking at Geralt, because that was easier. Geralt was good with spooked animals, and Jaskier had learned he was just as kind and patient with him when he really needed to be. 

"Weather's nice enough," his love conceded. "What do you need?"

"Well, obviously, I want a lute." He hadn't touched a bit of his food but just the prospect of creating music again gave him energy to stand and spread his arms in a flourish. "If I'm the first bard to walk these halls, I need a lute, Geralt!"

"You could get your boyfriend some clothes too, you bastard," Lambert chipped in, his mouth half full with Jaskier's forgotten meal. "I've never seen a bard wearing fucking black!"

Jaskier waved his hands in a placating gesture. "Oh, I don't mind at all! And finding a lute will prove hard enough." What he meant was costly, and he hadn't a coin to his name, so he was not going to make Geralt spend on frivolities.

Though truth be told, a lute was also a frivolity, he supposed. He'd tried to think about it as his trade, as Geralt's swords were instruments of work for him, but there was no money for Jaskier to earn in the keep, and no real use for music except to please himself with it.

"Shut up, stupid mutt." Aiden stuffed his partner's mouth with more porridge and Ciri giggled at Lambert's indignant glare. "Are we rich now? They'll be lucky to afford a lousy lute."

"And find one in a town so remote and small," Eskel commented.

"You don't need to go anywhere," Yennefer interrupted. "I'll need wood to make it easier, but I can transfigure one just fine."

The witch was trying to make eye contact with him, yet Jaskier couldn't hold her gaze.

She'd been angry, the last time they had spoken to each other. Then Jaskier had been busy being an infant, thinking about getting back at her, and now she was offering him a lute?

"You know, I think I can survive the winter without one," he mumbled, standing up from the table. "Excuse me."

***

Realistically, Jaskier knew he couldn't outrun Yennefer, so he just went outside to give Roach some sugar cubes and brush her coat. Geralt went out every morning to take care of her, but Jaskier knew Roach wouldn't complain about the treats. His feet froze instantly over the thick snow but the needles of pain were another welcome distraction, and whatever frostbite he got with the glamour wouldn’t hold once he took it off.

Yennefer sighed deeply when she found him. Jaskier meticulously brushed Roach's side. The mare snorted but let him fuss over her.

"Look, I don't know if you're like Geralt," he started, staring at his hands as he worked. "He's not much for apologies, and you don't look the sort either. So let's just pretend nothing happened. You want me to test the glamour, I'll do it this afternoon while Ciri is training."

"I'm certain it will hold," she replied, quieter than Jaskier expected. "I'm more interested in showing you it won't break than in finding cracks in it, Jaskier."

Jaskier paused, fuming. He finally turned to face her and forced himself to stand straight.

"Then why, pray tell, if you want me to feel so safe," he bit out, "are you so interested in me being fucking uncomfortable when we're alone?"

"Because you shouldn't be fucking uncomfortable with us!" She gritted her teeth, coming closer. Jaskier could've sworn she'd picked up that habit from Geralt. "Because I want you to be yourself when you're with us!"

"Well, this _ is _ me, Yennefer. It might be just a spell for you, but it's who I am, who I  _ choose _ to be."

"No. It's you  _ hiding _ and I won't have it!"

"Is it?" Jaskier was honestly tired of trying to analyze his own feelings, and a fight with her was the last thing he wanted after everything she'd done for him.

She was so sure of her place in Geralt's life, in Geralt's  _ heart _ , that she'd offered a piece to Jaskier. And oh, he was going to take it, but if it came with conditions, it was going to take some getting used to.

"Then here, take it back. Give it to me when I'm ready."  _ When I'm worthy _ , he bit back, but she could read minds and apparently she'd heard that too, judging by the widening of her eyes.

He took the medallion off and shoved it into her hands, his bare scaly feet far better suited to being outside than his human feet, and went back to tending to Roach.

She left, which Jaskier hoped meant he'd done the right thing. He couldn't stay long in the stables, his presence made the other horses nervous, so he stepped outside and tried to think of something to do.

He was thinking--just thinking--about going back to the lake, to hunt some fish this time, to at least bring back some food for them all, when he heard Geralt's footsteps.

"You promised Ciri you wouldn't go out alone," Geralt reminded him. "Let's go back inside, Jaskier."

He nodded jerkily, but softened instantly at the hand he was being offered. He accepted it carefully, and swallowed the lump in his throat at Geralt's understanding look, his quiet support.

It was far more than he deserved but he took it and they walked slowly back into the keep.

***

Yennefer was sitting near the hearth in Geralt’s room, the medallion clutched in her hands.

Jaskier stopped dead in his tracks near the door, letting go of Geralt's hand and averting his gaze.

"This is yours, Jaskier," Yennefer said, approaching him cautiously. "I made it with Ciri, but I was wrong in trying to tell you what to do with it."

She raised her arms to put the medallion back on his chest, but waited for his permission to do so. He looked at her briefly, and lowered his head to let her wrap the chain around his neck.

As a human, it was easier to take her hand and Geralt's and lead them to the bed so they could sit together.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, hating the cracks both in his voice and within him. "I promise you I'll be better."

“You don’t have to be.” Geralt squeezed his hand, heaving a deep sigh. “Yen was… worried. That you weren’t dropping the glamour, not even with us. Sometimes she gets… bossy.”

Jaskier snorted. Sometimes? “You don’t say.”

“I’m right here,” Yennefer griped. “And yes, I’m bossy, and I’m not very patient. But I think we’ve been patient with you, Jaskier. We waited the whole trip here to tell you how we feel, and you still act like a burned cat. I just don’t understand.”

Jaskier tried not to feel scolded, but failed. He let go of their hands and stood up to pace the length of the room, which wasn’t nearly enough to quell the rising anxiety that he was mucking this up too quickly to be able to fix it.

They’d  _ shown _ Jaskier everything they felt, and yet here he was, unable to even explain why it wasn’t enough when it should be. It  _ should _ be.

“I’m not used to being touched in my other form,” he said at length, digging his fingers into his elbows.

“Does it bother you, when we touch you?” Geralt asked, looking mildly alarmed.

“What? No, I love it, it’s just--” He threw up his arms in defeat. What a bard he was indeed, not finding even the simplest words to express himself. “Yennefer, could you do the--the mind thing, with me? I don't know how to explain."

"If you come here." Her words were curt, but her eyes were warm and she was patting the spot Jaskier had vacated between them.

"Right, of course."

Geralt was frowning and looked ready to object. Jaskier couldn't blame him, he was sure he reeked of fear and that it was far from a pleasant smell. But his fear of losing them was far greater than his fear of letting them inside his head, so he only fidgeted slightly as he sat back on the bed and swallowed when he felt Yennefer's fingers on his temple, her other hand reaching for Geralt's face.

"Concentrate on what you want us to see," she guided Jaskier.

He closed his eyes and remembered their first night as vividly as he could: feeling so very happy but so very overwhelmed as well that he couldn't sleep or move; how being touched was something he craved but once he got it, it made him sick to his stomach.

Then other memories came unbidden to him. He saw his colony back in the sea, his sisters and every Siren that lived there mocking him, calling him ugly, making him a pariah, their voices like a chant for Jaskier to kill himself and rid them of his cursed existence.

His mother, giving him his old enchanted ring, before ushering him away. 

"Don't take it off and perhaps one day, someone out there will want you."

He was panting by the time Yennefer let go and he wiped his cheeks, dumbfounded.

He opened his mouth to apologize, yet Geralt beat him to it and pulled him to his chest, Yennefer's hand carding through his hair in a comforting gesture that he'd seen a lot but hadn't really experienced himself.

"It wasn't your fault," the Witcher assured him, lips brushing against his brow. "That she didn't want you."

Jaskier knew Geralt had been abandoned by his mother as well; he had a feeling this was something Geralt needed to hear as much as he did, so he just held on to him with both arms around his strong back.

He turned his head enough to look at Yennefer. Her eyes had always held more years than the rest of her body seemed to, but it was the first time Jaskier had seen them looking so weary.

"What our parents did to us does not define us." The words were uttered like a vow, and Jaskier made a small cooing sound, worried. He tugged her gently closer to them so Geralt could hug them both; he was good at that.

Jaskier hadn't known she'd been abandoned too, though it made sense with her mixed elven-human heritage.

Logically, he got their point. It was what they became that mattered, yet just the idea of losing his human pelt again made him want to cry.

Ciri found them like that, still wrapped in each other, and squealed before throwing herself on the bed, her small arms trying to envelope the three of them making them laugh. Geralt caught her before she could fall over and kissed her forehead.

"Did you make up?" she asked, relief in her voice.

"Yes, Ciri," Yennefer replied. "Now don't think I've forgotten about your lessons."

"Or your training," Geralt tacked on.

Citi just giggled when neither of her parental figures tried to get up for a good, long while.

It seemed Jaskier's theatrics had at least granted her half a day off.


End file.
